The Lady of Shalott
by Ibex's Lyre
Summary: *Completed* The question answered, the curse come true, the end is upon her, and the beginning...
1. 'Tis the Fairy'

****

The Lady of Shalott

by Ibex's Lyre

Disclaimer: Is applicable to every chapter, although I reserve the right to include additions to the disclaimer in following chapters as I see fit. I do not own any characters you recognize (i.e. Harry Potter and gang)--they of course belong to J.K. Rowling. Nor do I own the poem "The Lady of Shalott" which belongs to Alfred Lord Tennyson. Find it, read it. The story _may_ make more sense. The references to music are references to Loreena McKennitt and her lyrical adaptations of various prose, such as "The Lady of Shalott" and also some of her more original work. As you can guess, I don't own her music, either, and neither does Hermione. Witchwood, unless I am gravely mistaken and it turns out there really is such a tree, belongs to Tad Williams. Yes, it shall be HG/SS, no this is NOT an alternate universe, but sit back; you may find you enjoy it. 

I offer no excuses or apologies. 

****

Chapter One: 'Tis the Fairy'

Grass coated the world in green and blue as the moon overhead shown full; the man in black shuddered and could only hope that his Wolfsbane potion was working as it was supposed to. He did not want a repeat of long past childhood pranks, of the fear of near death, the sick feeling of adrenaline that had come with those events; no, he got enough of that as it was. Trapped in a world that bordered between the forces of good and evil, he was lost in the grays with no way to escape the fence he was forced to sit on by others. Life was dangerous enough as it was without having to worry about an errant werewolf turned teacher. On nights like these, Severus Snape truly felt disgusted with his entire world, his entire reality. There had to be something more than this, some answer he was missing, some way to defeat the Dark Lord and escape this hell his existence had been thrown into. He just had to find it...

But then again, it was his fault his life was like this. He had joined Lord Voldemort in the beginning in an attempt to quench his undying thirst for knowledge. He had defected to the other side once he had seen the atrocities. He had put himself in this position, trapped between the two worlds and just as much a victim of war as any other muggle, mudblood, or pureblood. If only... A sigh, deeply forlorn, escaped his thinned lips as he raked one pale hand through his raven hair. As much as he hated this train of thoughts, he could not but continue as if something was forcing him on. If only Lily or even that prat of a husband James had not been killed, they could have finished Voldemort off after Lily's little love charm managed to severely weaken the Dark Lord. If only Lucius Malfoy had been more of a coward instead of picking up the pieces after Voldemort's first fall. Now the wizarding world was a shamble of its former self, and every day the spy called Severus Snape went to a school filled with mostly purebloods, and a few very protected but still mostly orphaned halfblood wizards and witches that had somehow managed to escape first Voldemort's and then Malfoy's Reign of Terror. Maybe, maybe in the entire school there was only one or two mudbloods, and both were in Hufflepuff. 

What a shame. What an incredible shame. Hogwarts was only at half capacity, the wizard world was decaying and falling apart, and all because of what? Of some misguided crusade that was ironically eradicating the entire magical population instead of purifying it. 

Not that Voldemort cared.

Or Lucius, for that matter. Snape frowned, trying to remember just exactly why he was out here at this cursed time of night? Ah, yes, Albus had some mistaken idea that Snape might find something important here. _Hardly likely, _he thought bitterly. _Probably nothing more than a whore house. Mudblood Entertainment, Lucius calls it. Entertainment indeed._ If it turned out that Dumbledore had just sent him here to get a quick shag and make him less irritable, Snape was definitely not going to be happy. _Not that Albus would send me to abuse already mistreated witches._ He took a sharp intake of breath as the sensation that something was incredibly wrong hit him like a brick wall. Before he could press his mind further to come up with an explanation, the feeling was gone.

Still, there were so many other things he could be doing than watching exploited females... Like thinking up new ways to horrify and humiliate baby Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. The thought made him smile sinisterly; in the moonlight, he truly resembled something like a bat out of hell with robes billowing and dark, lank hair. 

A few minutes later, following the sounds of music weaving through the fully leafed trees, Snape came upon an external stage surrounded by hundreds of filled chairs. _Like a Death Eater Convention_, he thought sourly and found an empty seat at the very back that was conveniently cloaked in shadows. There was a female up on the stage, slowly taking off her clothes to music and working the crowd for tips that would all go to Lucius, of course. And if she didn't earn enough tips to maintain her keep... well... she would be added to the pile of martyrs, fallen heroes, and slain innocents. This knowledge, however, did not stop him from glaring darkly at the blond haired witch when she came looking for galleons from him. He gave her nothing.

The night was going slowly, and so far Snape had neither seen nor found anything that would have been worth wasting both his and Dumbledore's time. Only enslaved witches (and wizards) doing anything they could to please the crowd and thus ensure their temporary survival. Pathetic looking, all of them. No fight left, no thoughts to struggle against their bondage, only resignation to their situation and no hope of doing anything more than merely 'survive.' Certainly none worth risking his cover to save, as horrid as it sounded. The truth always hurt.

With a snort of disgust, Snape slowly stood up to leave. They were switching acts anyway, so it was not like he was disturbing anyone--not that he cared. Another girl was now standing on stage as the strange--just standing. Standing, and it looked like she was examining the crowd, daring them to make her do her act. Her abnormal defiance sent jeers from the crowd and a look of veiled interest from Snape as he sat back down with his arms folded sourly against his chest. He was annoyed, of course, annoyed that he felt obligated to watch her and see what she would do and what she was made of.

She was nameless, of course--lack of a name and therefore an identity somehow eased Lucius' twisted conscience. She stood ram-rod straight on the stage in a dark blue satin dress that was well tailored to her figure until it got to her hips--where it was allowed to puff out somewhat like a ball gown--and covered her bare feet. On her shoulders draped a very long and thin shawl of the same fabric as the dress that made it look like she was wearing a robe. Although it was hard to tell from this distance, he was sure she had brown eyes; her long curly hair was a coppery auburn held back loosely by a clip. On her lips was a dark shade of lipstick very noticeable against her pale skin, and the only piece of jewelry she had on was a pair of silver hoop earrings. By chance, her scathing gaze brushed through the crowd and locked onto his figure half hidden by shadows, and she narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly. As if saying, he mused, _you may not be leering like the others, but you are just as bad as they are._

Unfortunately for her, the look did not have its intended effect. Rather, her spite amused Snape greatly. He lifted a mocking eyebrow at her and let a smirk form upon his lips. _And what makes you so special?_ his smirk asked silently.

Even from this far away, he could see the fury suddenly blaze into her eyes. The girl snapped her head to the side posed in display of pride, one foot in front of the other, one arm over her head the other behind her back, and the music began. A violin was heard first, other followed. She began to dance, a strange, odd dance that could only be described as possibly a mix between the Gaelic and Gypsy styles. If the dance was not impressive enough, she opened her mouth and began to sing without loosing her breath or faltering her voice.

__

"A clouded dream on an earthly night  
Hangs upon the crescent moon  
A voiceless song in an ageless light  
Sings at the coming dawn  
Birds in flight are calling there  
Where the heart moves the stones  
It's there that my heart is longing  
All for the love of you"

Her eyes were clearly mocking and contemptuous of the crowd as she sang the last two lines of that particular stanza, something that would have probably gotten her killed had they noticed, but Snape was sure he was the only one who recognized the skill it took for her to dance so gracefully and sing at the same time. She was certainly a spiteful one, wasn't she? What amused Snape even more was that she had refused to look at him again, and he knew without a doubt that when she walked the seats looking for tips, she was not going to come near him--no matter how badly she might need the galleons. Yes, she might possibly be worthy of a lost night of sleep--just to watch her snub him.

When that song ended, she paused a moment to catch her breath and take her shawl off because of the heat. She quickly tied it around her waist like a Japanese obi, and it immediately intrigued Snape that she should be so cultured when none of the others who had preceded her onto the stage had been. In a brief lapse of something resembling curiosity, he wondered what she had been before she had become a dancer for Lucius. She didn't look to be really very old--nothing exceeding twenty or twenty one (there was another twinge of wrongness that settled back into oblivion)--so she really couldn't have been very old when Lucius... attained her. And she was most certainly not oriental, either. _Curious..._

The song ended and she began another dance to the adapted tune of _Santiago_, an old traditional to which Snape was vaguely familiar with, and when that one was over, came two other song-less dances that Snape did not know. The dancing was more suggestive in its innuendo in an attempt to somewhat please the crowd since she absolutely refused to remove her clothing, but graceful nonetheless. _Almost enjoyable._ _Almost._ Indeed, his interest was waning by the end of the fourth song, until he suddenly realized that the slight movements of her fingers mirrored exactly the music. She was responsible for every nonexistent instrument. _She_ had some powerful magic trapped in her frame. A scowl crossed his lips as he sized her up. 

__

Damn Albus and his intuition. He really must be omnipotent… And I'm sure he now expects me to rescue the little dancing brat. Maddeningly enough, the girl on stage suddenly decided to glance at him at this moment of moments, and sneered ever so slightly at him, feeding off the obvious annoyance on his face. Snape's scowl only deepened, to her delight.

The dance ended, and she brushed sweat-plastered hair from her face. _It's really too hot out to keep this up,_ she thought bitterly. But she had to. She had to work much harder than the others in order to work up tips enough to prove her keep to Malfoy. Well, at least they were clapping... or... catcalling, anyway. Her lips pressed tightly together in a guarded expression, she silently went through her list of music in order to come up with something long enough to allow herself to cool down somewhat, but not so long that they would lose interest because of a lack of hip movements and suggestively placed hands. Ah, yes, her adaptation of Alfred Lord Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott." Moving her hands slightly, she began the music, despite the fact that she felt so incredibly drained... Wandless magic like this look a lot of effort and concentration, but what other choice did she have? Unless she wanted to become a prostitute, which she most certainly did not. She hadn't sunk that low yet. 

A quick glance at her shadowed friend told her that he did, indeed recognize the words, and raised his bloody eyebrow again. But she no longer had the energy to sing and sneer, so she just sank into the music and let her mind wander ever so slightly. The nameless Lady of Shalott. Once she had had a name, but now it was gone, just like the Lady. Now whenever anybody wanted her attention, they just called her nymph or fairy, on account of her hair, her eyes, her lips. She wished that there really was some Lancelot for her to look at through her mirror, somebody to come and give her reason to try to escape the curse she was in, to give her reason to climb that boat that sailed down the river that would freeze her blood. Somebody that would say she had a lovely face, but not because they simply wanted to bed her, who would tell her 'God in His mercy learn to grace' to she, the Lady of Shalott. (A/N 'God in His mercy lend her grace')

Quickly, she ended her song and began another dance accompanied by more music. When that was finished with that one, she ended her act by doing two of her more popular numbers, placing her shawl back on her shoulders, and getting off the stage. Time to look for tips.

In her mind, this was the worst part of her entire existence. This was when _they_ tugged at her curls of hair, called her pixie, or fairy, depending on how horny they were. This was when their hands had free range of her body, and there was really nothing she could do about it if she wanted to get any galleons. This was when she was most vulnerable, surrounded by all those men, too exhausted after all that physical and magical effort to really fight back, and bound by their lustful generosity to make a living. What was worse was that out of jealousy or simple meanness, the other dancers had coerced Malfoy into putting her act at the very end of everything, when all of the best paying, most generous tippers had already left, having procured their quick fix, and when all of the others were mostly out of money. To top everything off, now she had to deal with Mr. Holier than Thou Gothic Bastard trying to pretend that nobody could see him when he stood in the shadows like that.

With years of practice, the nameless dancer schooled her face into a mask completely devoid of emotion. Hand out in front of her (not that they ever placed anything in her hands--they liked to stuff the tips down the top of her shirt as they let their own hands wander), she slowly began to walk the aisles. Just as she had feared, people were either fondling her corpse-stiff body or walking off without even pretending they were planning on leaving any tips. The more perverted ones would drop a few knuts or sickles for her, and then try to dry hump her as she bent down to pick them up knowing full well that there was really nothing she could do about it if she wanted to survive. When she had been little, she had absolutely abhorred dresses. Now she was grateful for the scant protection her floor-length fishnet slip supported one gave her from having to feel their nauseating hardness against her buttocks. All she had to do to keep them from lifting up her dress while she bent over was to step on the hem. She worked the crowd from front to back as they ignored her open hand but paid close attention to her chest, carefully ignoring Mr. Holier than Thou, but it seemed that for as hard as she was trying and for as bruised as her tender breasts were feeling, she had gotten very little thanks, indeed. And _he_ seemed to know it! He had that knowing smirk upon his face like her being screwed-over was very entertaining to watch. No, she wasn't even going to attempt to get anything from him. He'd probably just slap her backside for her trouble. Instead, she busied herself picking up the rest of whatever change the others had left on the ground for her.

He was still there when everyone else had left, still sitting there in the shadows, watching her every move. Still smirking. And there was nothing she could do about it, either. She would have to brush past him eventually--the only way to get to her trailer was to walk the small path to his left that disappeared into the forest. Slowly, carefully lest she make him any more aware of her than he already was (he could just be looking through her, not at her,) she stood up straight, and without looking at him, walked past him. Nothing happened. A few feet further, and she turned her head in surprise. He was still smirking, but had not moved a single muscle except to keep her in his sight. In her right hand was a tiny fortune in new, shiny galleons. Before she could say or do anything, he turned around and walked off into the darkness.

It took her a few minutes to collect her utterly confused and whirling mind. To be perfectly honest, she wasn't really sure what had just happened. That man, who had infuriated her so, had goaded her on throughout her entire act, whom she had been so sure was one of the perverts, had made no move on her, no attempt to inflict his lust upon her vulnerable body, had... had given her more money than she had earned in the past month, and had been the only one to place it in her hand, not down her dress.

She glared in the direction he had disappeared to for a good long time before she walked the trail that lead down to where she lived.

***

Lucius was not a stupid man. In order to keep damage and attempts to literally kill the competition at a minimum, he separated all the trailers from each other by many miles of wood. A hidden portkey known only by the girl (or guy as the case was) who used it transported them to and from the stage. Which, of course promoted shags in the forest as no person trusted any other to take them home for a quick roll in the bed, but that turned out to be not a bad thing, either, because the discomfort of a roll in the leaves and dirt also discouraged unwanted pregnancy. As a bonus, the isolation also hampered organized rebellions (whose house did they meet at if they couldn't even trust one another?) and the temptation to run away.

She had been very little when she had first been picked up by Lucius. When she thought hard about it, she really couldn't have been more then ten or eleven. In fact, she hadn't even known about magic, then. After all, she was a mudblood born to two muggles. Before Lucius had found her, hadn't even known that she was a witch. 

Ten. Now that she thought about it, she must have been ten. 

Because of the extensive cover-up of Death Eater doings, the muggle community had no idea that they were the target of such vicious hate violence. If they had known... maybe... maybe they would have moved to Australia or Canada or even America--anywhere but stay to be slaughtered like sheep. One more thing to be bitter about, she guessed. Her parents had been dentists. She had had a name. Hermione: Daughter of Helen of Troy. Ironically, the entire city she had lived in _had_ been destroyed by Death Eaters--completely obliterated off the British map, with the entire world obliviated into thinking that it had been a freak maelstrom of weather. Hermione knew the truth. She was living the truth. Malfoy, after Voldemort's 'death' nine years before, had decided to carry on the cause, and had destroyed her small city. Pureblood wizards and witches who stayed out of his way were let to live, their homes untouched. Muggles were immediately killed. The only mudbloods he let survive were the ones with the potential to become profitable entertainment. Somehow... somehow he had known that she was a mudblood. He had let her live.

Oh, the wizarding community had been outraged, of course, if only because Malfoy had given the Ministry one hell of a job to cover up. Under pressure, Malfoy had hidden all of those belonging to his entertainment troupe for a few years in the past. The unexpected happened. Lucius hid them for three years, but for them, seven years had actually passed. And she had learned a lot in seven years.

A pair of Gypsies who had brought the magic of South East Asia with them (despite the fact that Malfoy had taken their wands so long ago) when their great, great, great grandparents had left so many centuries before, had taken pity on her, along with a woman who looked Gaelic in origin. The Gypsies taught her how to dance and how to try to listen to her inner and outer animals. The Gaelic woman had taught her how to command the music of the wind even without a wand, helped her with her dance, and how to listen to the trees and plants. It was an infusion of old ways with even older ways, her only chance for survival in this new world. Never, all three warned her, never offer your body even when it seems like it is the easiest way, because then you lose faith in yourself and lose sight of who you are and your inner animal, lose your hearing of the plants and trees. Never let them know that you can hear the plants and animals, and understand them, because then they will try to use you and then you'll be trapped forever. 

That was easy for them to say. They had abandoned her long ago.

Hermione had listened to all that the women had to say, absorbed their knowledge like a sponge. When they had given her all that they knew, she had thirsted for more. Seven years passed, and she forgot her old family and had a new one. Or, at least, for two years she had a new family. As soon as the three women had taught her what they had decided she needed to know to survive, they had tried to run away. Hermione hadn't heard from them since.

And now?

She opened the door to her trailer after unlocking it with a muggle key. Now her greatest possessions were the rare book she managed to save money for and the fierce orange cat that she had found one day.

The cat was sitting on her small bed; when he saw her enter, he began to purr contentedly.

"Hello," she whispered, exhausted, trying to ignore the fact that that man had somehow brought on the odd feeling that something was not quite right. Like she was lost in a dream.

As soon as her door was shut, the young woman stripped her dress off and set it aside for whoever took her laundry to clean it and stepped into the tiny shower. She washed the lipstick off and put her earrings away, content to slip into bed with wet hair and no clothes.

***

The lights on in the Headmaster's part of the tower told Snape that Dumbledore was waiting up for him. While he had hoped on going to get some precious sleep, this new predicament meant that he would probably be kept up till the dawn hours. _At least it's a Saturday,_ he growled in his mind and slowly trudged up the many flights of stairs to Dumbledore's office. At least the man hadn't waited in the medical hall waiting for him to finish with the Granger girl.

"I presume you wanted to talk to me?" he asked as he eyed the old man to whom apparently sanity was a luxury often forgone. 

"Ah, yes, Severus!" The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes made Snape frown. This did not look like it was going to be a short meeting at all. "Did you have a good time?"

Snape's frown increased at a steady rate as his mind quickly began to flit from possibility to possibility trying to figure out if, perhaps, Dumbledore _was_ omnipotent. "Oh, yes," he began sarcastically. "Charming time. I always do enjoy watching human exploitation at eleven o'clock at night. Now what is the real reason you sent me for? Certainly not for an update on her condition. St. Mungo's made it implicitly clear that she was a hopeless case."

"Actually," Dumbledore returned nonplussed and offered Snape a sticky lemon drop, "I was hoping you'd have more luck than them. You, after all, have much more experience and insight into such matters."

"Luck?" he snorted and ignored the offering. "Miss Granger needs a lot more than simply luck. She is suffering from the after-affects of magical creature and curse-induced psychological warfare. She truly believes that she's some... dancer." His eyes suddenly narrowed as he reviewed his night spent in her trapped mind. "Ten points from Gryffindor, in fact."

"Ten points?" If anything, the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes grew brighter. "Why?"

"For thinking that I was Mr. Holier than Thou Gothic Bastard."

If Snape hadn't been so serious (and so sensitive), the Headmaster would have laughed outright. However, Snape being who he was, Dumbledore refrained from doing so. He, however, couldn't still the twitch of a smile at his lips. "You do realize, Severus, that how she thinks about you now is not necessarily how she thinks about you in real life, don't you?"

The man cloaked in black stiffly nodded.

"And that you do not give the best of first impressions?"

The scowl on his face deepened. "What do you want, Albus?"

Now it was time to get down to business. "I want to know if she is truly a hopeless case, Severus. If she is doomed to be in that coma for the rest of her life--or if there is something you can do about it?"

Eyes hardened for a slight minute as Snape grimaced and formed the answer in his mind. Then, with a hand raked through his hair in defeat, he changed his expression to a sarcastic sneer. "Yes, she is a hopeless case. She was so convinced, she started to inadvertently affect _my_ thoughts. Being a Gryffindor, she does not well understand or appreciate subterfuge. It will be near impossible for me to get her to see that what she thinks is reality is simply a lie without a stronger potion that will have, of course, greater consequences."

"But there is a chance that you might be able to help her?" the Headmaster pounced immediately on that prospect.

Snape was hesitant for a few seconds, and then sighed. "There is a slight chance," he allowed. "But there are risks involved. For example, I could potentially become trapped in her mind. Unlikely, but I will have to tailor some potions specifically to myself and the girl when I begin to seriously change her mind. And that in itself could lead to some unwanted circumstances."

"Severus, I am completely willing to take the risks if you are."

"You say that now, but what will you do when some..." he shuddered at the thought, "_bond_ forms?" The last thing he wanted was to be attached permanently to the Gryffindor Know-It-All's mind.

"You two are both adults now, who can think for themselves and take care of themselves. Yes, Severus, she is of legal age even if she is a seventh year to be, and there is nothing in the rulebooks saying that two legal adults, albeit one a student and the other a teacher, are not allowed to mingle." Dumbledore added when he saw the disbelieving sneer on Snape's face. "If something like a bond or other relationship does form, I must simply ask both of you to be discreet about it. Besides, Severus, you might find that you actually enjoy human company once in a while."

Snape's snort told the Headmaster he thought otherwise. Stiffly, Snape stood up and exited Dumbledore's office and headed towards the dungeons and his classroom. To his immense disgust, Granger's blasted cat was laying on his desk. For some reason unfathomable to anybody but perhaps Dumbledore, Crookshanks had decided that Snape was a suitable surrogate owner, and spent any time that was not already spent sitting on Hermione's chest in Snape's part of the castle. 

"Why don't you go off and get Mrs. Norris laid, you mangy tomcat?" he hissed.

In response to this command, Crookshanks closed his eyes and began to purr. After Snape made sure nobody else was around, he allowed himself a small chuckle and walked over to Crookshanks. "Ah, so I see you've already done that?" he murmured as he began to pet the tomcat. "That explains her behavior. Quite put out, you know. Perhaps you should have given her a mouse as a parting gift? It's a good thing I didn't give you that impotence potion like I planned, then, isn't it?"

One yellow eye opened in slight annoyance, and closed again as Snape began to scratch Crookshanks behind the ears. Well, if truth be told, Snape _had_ planned on gelding Crookshanks when the cat had first taken a liking to the Potions Master, but after Crookshanks had proven himself smart enough to avoid food offerings laced with anything that threatened his ability to create offspring (or poisons, too), Snape had given up. Slowly, he sat down at his desk, moved Crookshanks slightly aside so that the rather large ball of fur was not on his clean parchments, picked up his Slytherin green quill, and began to come up with a list of ingredients he would need. Dragon blood, of course, extract of witchwood... Griffin feathers, newt eyes for consistency... heather, mandrake leaves... tricorn hide, fairywillow wings, avalanche lily petals... Tail hairs of an okapi? Now that would be a hard one to obtain, since muggles have nearly driven that poor creature to extinction. An ingredient, he suspected, St. Mungo's had neglected to add during their own evaluation of the girl's mind. He stared off into oblivion for a long time, his mind revolting the lack of sleep it had been receiving for the past several days.

An imperious meow forced Snape back into the real world. For a moment, he suspected that it had been because he had stopped scratching the obnoxious cat, but instead, the cat had stood up and jumped off the desk. "Trying to tell me to go to bed?" he asked Crookshanks, torn between annoyance and amusement. With a shaky sigh, the Potions Professor stood up and followed the cat to his personal quarters. When he arrived, he gave the cat a disdainful look, and muttered, "Why don't you go spend some quality time with your owner?"

Crookshanks gave him a miffed sniff and sauntered off, presumably towards the medical wing.

Left to himself, Snape entered his quarters and looked around. His personal workroom was just as he had left it hours ago, strewn with opened books, remnants of carefully prepared ingredients on every bench... Organized chaos. Snape was a man of great responsibility. Slowly he began to wash instruments and beakers off in a gargoyle facetted sink, stack open books next to each other so that he would be able to find them when he needed them again, empty out his used cauldron. No, he wouldn't be using _that_ particular potion again. Aside from the fact it had been ineffective for Snape's purposes, it gave Hermione too much control over his thoughts when he had tried to enter her mind. But it had been useful for assessing Hermione's mental condition.

When his workroom was cleaned up, he walked into his bedroom and stripped off his clothes. It was already four in the morning, and there was less than a week left until the new school year started. Dumbledore had exaggerated. Even with Hermione's third year time turner experience, she wouldn't be eighteen until the 19th of September. Mercilessly pushing the thought away, Snape stepped into his bathroom and took a quick shower to rid his body of the oil and sweat that had formed as his body's defense against wearing black on a hot, August day. Damn Voldemort for doing this to a poor, defenseless know-it-all insufferable girl! She should have just come straight to the Headmaster instead of chasing after Potter at the end of the last school year! But no, she had to use her keen intellect and reason out that Potter was being snared by the songs of Voldemort's sirens. She had to come and try to save Potter from sure madness. She had to sacrifice herself like a worthless Gryffindor martyr, and now look where she was!

With a growl of dismay, he turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his lean waist. He would have to get some sleep if he was going to be of any use to the girl.

He climbed into his clean bed and closed his eyes, trying to review what he had learned of her mind quickly before he surrendered to sleep. It was somewhat amusing to recall how she had viewed herself, that blue dress, those songs... 

********************************************************************************

__

Only reapers, reaping early  
In among the bearded barley,  
Hear a song that echoes cheerly  
From the river winding clearly,  
Down to towered Camelot;  
And by the moon the reaper weary,  
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,  
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy  
Lady of Shalott." 

~Alfred Lord Tennyson


	2. The Magic Web

****

The Lady of Shalott

by Ibex's Lyre

Ah, yes, for Nuri. Thank you for your kind comments, I hope I can live up to your expectations. 

And I am glad the beginning caught you all off guard. They say that is the best way to gain attention. I appreciate your patience as you muddled through 8 or 9 pages trying to figure out what the heck was going on when I had assured you that it was not an AU. To clear up anything, yes, Hermione is trapped in her mind, and the whole dance thing is part of her mentally demented world. Read onward, and all shall be made clear.

As always, I offer no excuses or apologies. However, if anybody asks, I will always give explanations, the reasoning behind the reasons…

My only wish is that I could figure out how to get FF.Net to accept different colored text as WIKTT does. I would so love the Author's Notes and chapter headings to be teal. Ah, but how it sloughs off my html coding…

****

Chapter Two: The Magic Web

__

There she weaves by night and day  
A magic web with colours gay.   
She has heard a whisper say,   
A curse is on her if she stay   
To look down to Camelot.   
She knows not what the curse may be,   
And so she weaveth steadily,   
And little other care hath she,   
The Lady of Shalott. 

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

Snape cursed roundly and stalked out of the room--straight into Dumbledore. "I won't do it," he snarled, black hair falling into his eyes in his outrage. "I won't do it if _they_ are going to be staring at me the entire time, questioning everything I do, and getting in my way like first year Ravenclaws!"

Dumbledore smiled, partly at Snape's discomfort around anyone who showed concern for another, and partly that he had decided to slander a house other than Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. "Severus, they are her parents, after all. You must give them a little leeway--they are very concerned about their only child."

"They," Snape returned with a cold, uncompromising look, "have no understanding of what I am doing. They are comparing a muggle science and muggle techniques that are very lacking in their efficiency and effectiveness to my expertise in such matters as the Dark Arts. They, just like their dratted little spawn whose Gryffindor ways and headstrong attitude is often confused for bravery, are agonizingly pretentious and who in reality have no idea what they are presuming to talk about! This procedure is intimate enough--I am not going to have their little eyes second-guessing my motives the entire time."

Right on cue, Mr. and Mrs. Granger came scurrying out of the infirmary after Snape, with unasked and unanswered questions plastered on their faces. Seeing the ever blackening and very dangerous look on Snape's face, Dumbledore, kind man that he was, decided to distract Hermione's parents for a while. "Ah," he said cheerfully to the couple, "there you are! I believe you wanted to discuss something over tea?" A smile of mirth, good will, and most importantly, concern on his own face, the Headmaster led the two off towards the directions of his office, allowing Snape to breathe a sigh of relief. The only thing worse than little brats were their parents.

Slowly he stepped back into the infirmary and looked down at Hermione. She was sleeping rather peacefully at the moment, ensnared in the songs of the sirens. In the warm August sunlight that seeped through the windows, she looked so calm, almost smug. As if she knew something that nobody else did, something that gave her power enough to quietly rule the world. Copper highlights that would have made even Ginny jealous flashed brightly through her curly hair that refused to be tamed even by magic. The natural shape of her lips made it look like she was secretly smiling at something. Snape ignored it all.

As best as he could.

With a swift, deft movement, he quickly cleared the distance between him and her prone figure and pulled out his wand. His dislike for foolish wand waving aside, he was actually very adept with a wand, and transfigured her pillow a shallow basin that sunk into the sick bed and carefully tilted her head back into it. Silky tendrils of curling hair followed her head, and with the utmost of care and gentleness that would have surprised anyone who saw did he carefully pull back all of her hair and smooth it down in the basin so that it would stay out of the way and not irritate the comatose girl.

Snape summoned a chair as he washed his hands and his face in another basin. When he was finished with himself, he emptied the water, filling it back up with more clean, warm water, and began to gently wash Hermione's face. In her sleep, she murmured softly and tried to shake her head away from the water and soft cloth, but a steady warm hand held her head still as he finished his purification. Preliminary preparation over, Snape sighed and made himself as comfortable in the chair as he could--the actual work could take anywhere from minutes to hours depending on the state of Hermione's mind and the amount of control he had over her, during which time he would most likely have no conscious control over his body.

__

Nothing left to do but begin, so quit stalling, he thought harshly to himself. Out of his pocket he drew a large flask with which he had stored the potion he was going to use. The lid came off, and he placed it aside. Years of practice allowed him to pour a thin, constant stream of potion onto her forehead without making a mess. Apparently Hermione approved of the cool stream of liquid that balmed her forehead and traced its way down her hair and into the basin, for she began to murmur inaudible words of encouragement. Snape almost chuckled--she wouldn't be doing that if she had any idea what the potion was about to allow for.

As soon as the flask was empty, he placed it back in his pocket (along with the cap) and began to trace small hieroglyphs across her damp skin, right above her eyebrows. The first few glowed briefly and then shimmered back out of existence, but the last one stayed, and Snape knew it was time. This potion was much more intimate than the one he had used to get a glimpse at her mind the first time; however, this one also was much more potent and would give him a link into her mind strong enough to create a kind of bonding telepathy through the two. As it was a very old, rarely used potion that had not been investigated for the past thousand years, Snape had true idea how long it would last or even if the effects would be permanent. The papyrus codexes that had held the answers had long rotted away to nothingness. Even St. Mungo's had refused to even contemplate using the potion to remedy Hermione's situation. But it was the last chance to save a mind trapped forever in her own thoughts.

Snape pushed all those thoughts aside and leaned forward, wondering why he, of all people, had to be mentally tethered to one of the most obnoxious, loud mouthed, brilliant, incredible people Hogwarts had ever produced. His breath faltered as his raven hair fell across her face and his lips finally pressed ever so lightly on her forehead in the manner the few remaining scraps of codex indicated and then--

Darkness. Darkness stranger than any he had known before because it was simply the absence of all light. He could see himself in this darkness, but nothing more. It was like he was standing across a great chasm, and on the other side he could see Hermione watching him in that blue dress and her hair pulled back. There was no way to go forward and no way to go back. Suddenly hieroglyphs began to form across the distance and meld together in a silver filigree web that spanned the chasm and closed the distance between them, like the Bridge of Birds. At the sight of the bridge, Hermione turned and ran.

Cursing his luck and Hermione as well, Snape ran across the bridge after the girl. The darkness around him began to change, vaguely forming subtle shapes at first, and then into that forest nightscape she had tricked herself into believing was reality. There was a sense of wrongness that seemed to permeate everything here, as if something fundamental was not quite right, and it wasn't because she was trapped in a wrong reality. Snape pushed this to the back of his mind to let his own subconscious try to figure something out. In the distance, he thought he could just barely make Hermione out.

__

But I have control here, he thought sarcastically. The problem was, this was not his mind. He did not know his own strength here. He was used to fighting his own internal demons; he might inadvertently hurt the girl or, oppositely, be too gentle, and let her get away. Still, it was worth a shot if it got the cursed girl to stop.

Using his imagination like a wand, he concentrated on trying to make Hermione stop.

An inhuman growl came out of her mouth as she struggled against his will, only to end up in a mud puddle. Music wove softly through the night air and caressed the shattered hulk of the moon. Snape frowned at the broken moon--it hadn't been like that before... And yet, the sense of wrongness began to ebb again. Cautiously, Snape walked up to the girl and looked down at her. She was looking up at him as if he was the harbinger of hell; no hope shone on her face. She was lost in the web of a world she had created, and he was but an intruder upon her most sacred thoughts. Reality was hard and hateful. Here, harsh though her own thoughts were, she at least had something she could understand, she had certainty.

"Miss Granger?" he queried, not sarcastically, but strangely none the less.

At the sound of her name, her eyes grew wide, and the moon fell from the sky with an earth-fracturing crash.

In the midst of the maelstrom of ice and fire and razor sharp shards of nothing, Snape collapsed to the ground and buried his face in his arms. The sense of wrongness screamed at him, and in the wake of this world falling apart, literally shattering, Snape finally understood what exactly was wrong. Hermione wasn't simply lost in a coma, in a giant dream as everyone, including St. Mungo's, the incompetent fools, had assumed. She was stark raving insane. The implications made him clench his teeth even harder than they had been, and a muscle in his astral jaw began to twitch convulsively. When he got his hands on that girl... 

As quickly as it had began, the maelstrom ended.

Snape quickly stood up at the sound of giggling. Hermione was a little ways off, picking flowers in a green meadow surrounded by winter forests. To replace the old one, she had begun a new web of reality, a new tapestry to set upon her astral loom. Saying her name had not cured her; no, it had merely forced her to cling even further to the shattered shards of nonsense. Every once in a while, she would look up at him and smile, (often accompanied by more giggles) and then look back down at her flowers. There were fish floating through the air, and every once in a while, he would see a bird jump through the water of a large, deep river that ran gently next to him. Hermione skipped, quite apparently contented, over to him and began to braid flowers through his hair. She didn't notice how stiff he had suddenly gone at her contact.

He did nothing. What was he supposed to do? The idiot girl,_ well, she _is_ indeed an idiot, after all,_ looked so happy as she smiled brightly up at him, so completely oblivious of sanity, that it pained Snape. _To be completely, blissfully unaware of how horrible reality is._ And yet, to give up like this was cowardliness, the easy way out. More importantly, she had people who... Snape frowned, disgusted at the thought, and perhaps unconsciously jealous... loved her, who needed her back and lucid. This was not going to be easy, by any means. To be honest, Snape wasn't really sure he _would_ be able to pull her back. She might be stuck forever like Longbottom's parents, trapped forever in her own mind picking lilies.

On the other hand, he had something that the Longbottoms didn't. Well, several things, he smirked, if you counted not having such a hopeless, bumbling son as Neville. He had a strong bond that gave him the potential to completely take over Hermione's mind and restructure it from the bottom up. Unfortunately, he really had no idea how to do something like that, but where would the challenge be otherwise?

With a sigh, he brushed the abominable flowers out of his hair (they were stone) and tried again, ignoring the hurt look on her face as he rejected her gifts. "Miss Granger, kindly stop that before I am forced--" To his intense frustration and annoyance, the world began to shatter again. Hermione was trying to run away through the maelstrom, but Snape grabbed her before she could. This time, _he_ was going to change the world.

Suddenly, they were at Hogwarts again. The real Hogwarts, the Hogwarts evident in Snape's own mind. "This, you foolish little girl, is something we call sanity! Now wake up!"

She was struggling against him, but his awareness was much more powerful than hers. After all, what was her fragile candle of existence compared to his years of angst and guilt strengthened demons? Not that she hadn't a formidable mind herself, but still, with her mind, her willpower cracked as it was, she didn't really stand a chance. With one great push, he shoved her mind out of the coma it had been in, and into the waking world.

And woke up himself.

The first thing he realized was that he could feel everything she thought, and it wasn't pleasant. The second thing he realized was that they were not alone. The third thing he realized was that his entire upper half was draped across Hermione and how lewd they must look, collapsed over each other like lovers. 

Picking up the remains of his dignity, he sat up and glared at the intruders. "You're back," he sneered at the Granger parents. Hermione was sitting up, completely unconcerned with everything.

"You were on my daughter," Mr. Granger growled as his wife ran over to give hugs and kisses to Hermione, who was looking at her with a dazed expression on her face.

"Yes, and I brought her back to the waking world, something _your_ little hospitals could not do. If you'll kindly excuse me, I've had enough fun with deranged minds for one night, thank you." He brushed past Mr. Granger, and right into Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey, who had just entered. If it was possible, Snape's face grew even more considerably displeased.

"Ah, Severus, how is our little Gryffindor? Awake I see? That's very good news, indeed." Dumbledore couldn't have been more incorrect. Madam Pomfrey looked closely at Snape's closed expression, and glanced back over at Hermione. She had the good sense to realize that something was amiss.

"Why isn't my baby responding to me?" said Mrs. Granger suddenly. The distraught look on her face only made Snape sour even more. 

"No, Albus, Poppy, that is not good news at all," he said, completely ignoring Hermione's mother. "She didn't chase after the siren to save Potter. She went to ask it a question. She is lucky she's alive at all--or unlucky, depending on how you look at it."

The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes died instantly, and he aged visibly a good ten or fifteen years. 

Madam Pomfrey went as white as a ghost. "She's insane, then? Not just comatose from hearing the siren's song..." 

Snape nodded. "I don't know what question she asked. I wasn't able to get... that far... through her mind."

Briskly returning to her senses, Madam Pomfrey walked over to Hermione and began to get her vital signs with a flick of her wand.

"What do you mean my Hermione's insane?" Mr. Granger all but yelled, his patience wearing thin. He was a dentist, a doctor, a practical man. When he had learned his daughter was a witch, he had been a supportive parent, and had gone into the situation with an open mind. Now he was being told by a man who had earlier ridiculed him about British 'muggle' science and medicine that his precious magic couldn't save his daughter! 

Mrs. Granger had begun crying several minutes ago, to Snape's intense disgust. He had had enough of this entire situation.

"Your Hermione," he began in his silkiest, most dangerous voice, "is a foolish, headstrong stubborn little Gryffindor who thinks she is immune to danger. Your Hermione chased after that even more foolish boy Potter and his dolt of a sidekick Weasley, who were being ensnared by the songs of a siren. Your Hermione asked that siren a question, knowing full well that listening to its songs could cause comas or death, and knowing full well that while sirens will answer even the hardest of questions they also give the question bearer complete and utter insanity as a price for their curiosity. Your Hermione will probably never make sense again. Pity. I just might miss her obnoxious little hand waiving down broomsticks in my classroom, and her blustery answers. But then again, she did this to herself."

With that, Snape pushed past Dumbledore and stormed off to the sanctuary of his dungeons.

***

In no mood to be disturbed, Snape ignored the knock on his door when it came. Albus Dumbledore, not bothered in the least by the unreceptive mood Snape was in, walked into Snape's living quarters anyway. The man was sitting on a small sofa in front of a fire that did nothing to warm the chill in the August dungeons, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. Suddenly, a small smirk formed upon his lips. 

"What's so funny, Severus?" he asked, rather curious, in fact. If he didn't know any better, he would have said that the man whose glare was comparable to a basilisk was almost near laughing.

"Granger," Snape replied, noncommittally. His smirk was slowly sinking back to a deep frown. "The girl is, at the moment, holding conversation about _I'm not sure what_ with a cat. Or rather, she is holding the conversation with herself. She thinks she's a cat."

This anecdote interested Dumbledore greatly. "So you can hear and feel everything she thinks and feels?"

"Oh yes," he responded rather nastily. "And I am almost positive the same is for her." _Fortunately she is not lucid enough to understand any of it. Thank goodness for small mercies_, he thought sarcastically, well aware of the irony within that statement.

"Her parents wanted to take her back to the muggle world with them, to an insane asylum."

Snape shrugged. "That will do no good. She's gone, Headmaster. This was dark magic. You can't just talk somebody sane again or fill them up with dangerous chemicals in muggle pill form after they've been harmed with dark magic."

Although Dumbledore did not say anything out loud, he thought it interesting, to say the least, that Snape was actually showing this much (albeit veiled) concern for Hermione's mental health. To him, anyway, it was a good sign. He thought that the responsibility of helping Hermione might help Snape as well. "That's what Poppy said, too."

Snape sighed. "Is the little brat staying?" he asked, since it was obvious that's what Albus wanted him to do.

"Oh yes. In fact, given the circumstances, she and Minerva were just now deciding where they were going to keep Miss Granger, since in her state she very well can't go back to her old dorms--"

"Let her attend classes, Albus," Snape said suddenly. "She may be crazy, but she is still capable of retaining information in her warped mind. It might... help." Although how, Snape really had no idea. The thought had come unbidden to his mind.

"--in fact," the old wizard continued, the renewed twinkle in his eye making Snape suddenly suspicious, "they thought that since you were now mentally bound to her anyway, that you might take also watch over her when she is otherwise not attended--"

--That wasn't so bad, Snape thought--

"--which means moving her into your guest quarters--"

"--No!" Snape growled. "Absolutely not! I will not have that Gryffindor lunatic housed anywhere near me!"

"Actually, Severus, I thought that was a great idea, so we already moved her stuff in." 

"What?" he said, looking as though he was going to die. "But how--" the man shot up from the sofa and walked to his guest room (turned library), throwing the door open. To his horror, the bed had been cleared of books and were made to somehow fit in the bookshelves (a miracle of magic, that was--the bookshelves had been overfull before). Hermione's possessions were already in place, and a tiny house elf was doing the final tidying up. "House elves," Snape snarled vitriolically, every fiber in him trembling with rage. "Out!"

The house elf squeaked and disappeared

"Now, now Severus." Dumbledore chimed his eyes twinkling merrily. "You must be careful now. Remember that our dear Miss Granger can feel every emotion you have… especially strong ones." Ah, yes, this bond could help teach him to control his anger, too…

The look in Snape's eyes were absolutely murderous. "Albus, I swear this is the last favor I will ever do for you again."

"Really, Severus?" he asked, and looking over at the door, apparently not concerned with this new threat. "Ah, now there's our girl now. Come on in, Miss Granger," the girl flinched every time she heard her name, and it took Snape much effort to keep her from trying to run away again, "Minerva. See, Severus? Your anger is already confusing the poor girl, and she's confused enough at this moment as it is."

"Yes," Snape muttered coldly. "You would know all about _that,_ now wouldn't you?"

Dumbledore ignored this jab at his own state of mental reasoning.

"Albus," McGonagall spoke up, glaring at Snape, "are you sure this is wise?"

"Minerva, the bond has already been made. This way, it will be much easier for Severus to keep an eye on the--"

"--loathsome prat--" muttered Snape under his breath.

"--girl while she is recovering. She is in the best of hands. Besides, once the school year starts, she will have her friends to help her along too."

Snape snorted at this remark, making some snide statement about never recovering, and something even nastier about Potter. If Hermione was picking up his anger and annoyance, she certainly didn't show it on her face. Instead, she was glancing curiously over at Crookshanks, who had situated himself on the sofa, taking over the place where Snape had been.

"Besides, Minerva, did you really want to look after a crazy girl the entire school year?" Snape finished, pointing at Hermione, who was busy holding a very serious conversation with Crookshanks. In a Sanskrit adaptation of sign-language.

Really, McGonagall couldn't say that she did, so she admitted so. And smirked at Snape suddenly. "She'll of course want to watch the Quidditch games with her house, so you'll have to sit with Gryffindor, Severus. My students won't gloat--too much--when Slytherin gets creamed."

"I hardly think so, Minerva," returned Snape evenly and made a disdainful face. Hermione was not making much sense verbally or mentally at the moment, and it had caught him off guard. "If it comes to that, Hermione will be sitting in the Teacher's box, or not at all. There is no way I am sitting with Gryffindor or allowing Mister Weasley to handle Miss Granger by himself during a game of Quidditch."

"Well, if everything's settled, Severus," chimed in Dumbledore suddenly, "then we'll leave you be. Remember, Monday is sooner than you think."

***************************************************************************************

Actually, I lied. I have a couple other wishes, including the definitely not going to happen desire that Michael Whelan would illustrate my fanfiction and/or other works, or that I could paint like him. My artwork, though of respectable quality, is nowhere near as realistic or as incredible. *sigh*

Indeed, there are a few pictures that I have always adored concerning Tennyson's poem. One is of Elaine, the suspected Lady of Shalott already dead in a dragon boat floating down the river at sunset. Does the name Grimshaw ring a bell? The other is by the artist John William Waterhouse (called The Lady of Shalott, go figure) in which she is in her trance and floating down the river--probably it is the more famous of the two.

Why hieroglyphs instead of runes or something more Celtic, you ask? Because I was bored with everything mystical required of Severus being in runes. Not that I particularly adore hieroglyphs, either and certainly not because I am going for an ancient Egyptian theme--this is the Lady of Shalott, after all. Its just they seemed sufficiently old for a telepathic potion of my description. Perhaps next time I'll use Katakana or Kanji just for fun. Maybe even Sanskrit because of the elegance.

The Bridge of Birds is a reference to a Chinese myth concerning the Aquila (the Greek eagle) constellation, in which a young cow herder (the cowherd of the Sun God) and weaver girl (who happened to be the daughter of the Sun God) become greatly in love with each other. To keep the two from neglecting their duties, the gods separate them by the immense span of the milky way. The birds (magpies, actually) took pity on the two and for one day of each year all fly together to form a great bridge that allows the lovers to meet.

Now, since all of you were so kind as to give me insight into your minds, I shall do the same for you.

GMITH: As I said, I appreciate your tenacity. I do hope you will continue to find the story interesting. 

Agent x05: Thank you- that really made me feel like Queen of the Fanfics. Our Hermione has quite an intriguing mind… Although Snape, I am sure, will gladly disagree.

Hermione Black: I hope this chapter helped to clear up some of the confuddledness you felt.

Ankle: For all intents and purposes, yes, you had it correct. The moral of the story is that one should never chase after famous magical friends at the end of any school year. Or… perhaps… just not attend Hogwarts.

Thank you all kindly for your reviews. And if ever I should fail to put an end quotation mark, or forget a period, please do inform me so that I may rectify my error.


	3. Shadows of the World

****

The Lady of Shalott

by Ibex's Lyre

I read a complaint once about the lack of Hagrid, Peeves, Sorting Hat songs, and Filch/Norris in one of those Guides to the Harry Potter Fanfic Universe things. Well, I shall rectify the Sorting Hat song issue, anyway, although you shall probably all curse my odd sense of meter and rhythm as well as my disdain (carefully ignored) for consciously rhyming.

In any event, I still refuse to apologize or give any excuses…

****

Chapter Three: Shadows of the World

__

And moving throu' a mirror clear  
That hangs before her all the year,   
Shadows of the world appear.  
There she sees the highway near  
Winding down to Camelot:  
There the river eddy whirls,  
And there the surly village-churls,   
And the red cloaks of market girls,  
Pass onward from Shalott.

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

It was a very strange thing to share one's thoughts with a mentally deranged seventeen year old who also happened to be of the opposite sex. Fortunately for Snape's own sanity, after the initial shock of being woken up, Hermione was a pretty good sport. She stayed where he told her to (although McGonagall had made him stop doing this after he used it as a means to escape the girl's presence for several long hours at a time and the Gryffindor Head of House had found Hermione still standing in the exact same position as when Snape had left her…) and, for the most part, was quiet. There were even moments when she looked almost sane, when she was quietly probing at Snape's mind in the same way he probed hers to check the state of her internal mental functions and stability.

The days until school started quickly ticking away, and Snape was not altogether too happy about this. There had been several research projects he had been hoping to start, which was impossible now since he had spent much of his summer struggling with St. Mungo's to return Hermione to Hogwarts and then overseeing her awakening. Of course there had been the… _meetings,_ and the fact that Snape was almost positive that Voldemort knew he was a double agent, and wasn't too happy about it. In other words, his summer had gone to hell in a handbasket--

The ceremony would be starting soon, and Snape most certainly did not want to attend. To ease his ever fraying nerves, he had begun working on a potion anyway. Hermione, dressed in some clothes he had had to pick out for her since she refused to change otherwise, was peering into the cauldron with much interest. He could hear her mind working so quickly that he didn't bother to keep up with it. It was probably just mad ravings, anyway. When she thought he wasn't looking, she pulled something out of her pocket and tried to dump it into the simmering cauldron. 

"Do you know what you're doing, girl?" he sneered suddenly as he pulled Hermione's hands away from the open cauldron and grabbed the vial from her tightly clenched fingers. Unicorn's blood.

"Yes," she returned, giving him a glare for his. "And what you're doing, too, sir."

The look in her eyes was clear and uncluttered. Even still, he steeled himself for an incomprehensible response. "And what, pray tell, am I doing?" he asked in a very waspish voice.

"Trying to devise a way to kill Voldemort. But you're doing it all wrong. You need to add unicorn's blood and pheonix tears--"

Snape's cruel laughter stopped her and made her look away. "Yes, and not only make him more powerful, but also heal all his wounds? I don't think so, you impertinent little girl. Now go away and amuse yourself with someone else." A hooded look came over Hermione's eyes and she sauntered off to find Crookshanks, who was, after Snape mused for a few minutes, probably on _his_ bed yet again. He sighed. It was clear that he was going to have no more dignity left by the end of the school year.

The good news, if you could call it that, was that Snape, in his efforts to rebuild Hermione's mind, had reached some rather interesting developments. The first was that he had managed with her cooperation and her subconscious, which turned out to be a wonderful recording device, to more or less rebuild the conditions and awareness that had constituted her mind before she asked the siren her question. It seemed that now she lived in a somewhat shadowed world close but not quite the same as his reality. Sometimes she even seemed to temporarily surface to reality. Theses bouts with sanity were usually very short lived. Until Snape found a way to break the loom that she was building all her misconstrued foundations on, she would continue to live in her world. However, her mind being in this shadowy reality meant that she could, indeed, learn without fear of it being twisted by her mind. In theory, she could even take her N.E.W.T.s… _And I should get an Order of Merlin, but that's not going to happen, no matter how incredible a feat even partially reconstructing her mind was…_

The second was that he had found what he believed was her memories of the siren. He was not afraid to admit that he was quite curious as to what Hermione had been so interested in to waste her life over. Unfortunately, the memories were hidden behind a giant stone cube that blocked all attempts to gain access. Written all across were strange symbols, somewhat similar to the ones he had used to create the mental bond, and yet all of them twisted. He suspected that the wall and the symbols were the doings of the sirens, and that this is what had shattered her mind. Ingenious. He copied the symbols in his mind, hoping they might provide later answers or perhaps even be of use…

A knock on his door disturbed his thoughts and made him realize how late it was getting. He was debating whether or not he should answer it when he remembered that tonight was the night the little brats would be returning to Hogwarts, and that the person knocking would either be McGonagall, Dumbledore, or Pomfrey. "Come in," he sneered, knowing that they would have, anyway--especially if Dumbledore was with them. Unfortunately for him, all three were standing at the door.

"Ah, hello, Severus. How's our little patient doing?" asked the Headmaster in a disgustingly cheerful voice. He was wearing his most festive (and eccentric) robes.

He muttered a preserving charm at the cauldron, and warded it from unwanted hands. "Well enough," returned Snape. Actually, he hadn't sensed much from her mind in a little while. "Is it time?"

"Almost, Severus." McGonagall was in charge of ushering in the new students and sorting them into their prospective houses, so she would know. "Hagrid is halfway across the lake now, and the other students are beginning to file into the Great Hall. Is she…" the Head of Gryffindor couldn't finish her statement. 

"Yes, yes," he frowned at all three. "She's been relatively… obnoxious… for the past two days. She is quite capable of joining the feast and sitting at the Gryffindor table. She wandered off to find her blasted cat, if you want to see her." He pointed vaguely in the direction of his room and began to clean up. McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey walked over into his room, and one of the two made an odd noise.

"Severus, did you know that the girl is sleeping on your bed?" McGonagall's voice was clearly disapproving.

Dumbledore's eyes were sparkling with poorly hidden amusement.

Snape's frown grew deeper and he swept into his sleeping quarters. Hermione was indeed asleep, curled up with the cat on top of his nicely made bed. "No, Minerva, apparently I didn't otherwise I would have kicked her out myself. Granger!"

Hermione shot up. From the confused expression on her face, she had no idea what she was doing here and why everyone was staring at her. "What?"

"No need to be harsh, Severus," returned Poppy, and Snape's expression got darker. "It's clear that she has no understanding of what she's done."

"Well, Poppy," he ground out through clenched teeth, "What would you have me do? Minerva here just yelled at _me_ for the doings of her cluttered mind and for _not _yelling at her. I can't read her thoughts all the time, and even if I could afford to waste my concentration like that, I probably wouldn't be able to understand half of what she thinks, anyway! Granger, get off my bed. Now!"

"But… But Crookshanks told me that I should take a nap and that you wouldn't mind…" She looked very distressed now, and her emotions hit him like a brick wall.

"Well, Crookshanks has no idea what he is talking about, and I'll skin him next time he makes such an erroneous statement." The cat was glaring at him now, but Snape ignored it. "Now get out of my room now before you regret it." The girl fled the room with a sob and hid behind Dumbledore, who offered her a lemon drop. She accepted the sticky sweet and quieted down. The gesture was perhaps one of the most blatant signs of her faulty mental faculties--nobody in their right minds ever accepted a lemon drop from Dumbledore. It just wasn't done. 

Snape immediately turned to the women next to him. "And if you two have any more problems with the way I take care of the girl, then you can have her yourself. But I doubt you'll be able to manage her."

He stormed out of his living quarters altogether and left the three Professors and one rather deranged girl to take care of themselves.

He was sitting up at his seat at the head table when he saw McGonagall conducting Hermione, Harry, and Ron to their seats before she walked out to bring in the first years to be. He shot them a disapproving glare, but only Hermione was in any state to pay attention, and she looked chastised enough as it was. Harry was busy trying to subtly take care of Hermione, and Ron was busy doing the same thing, only infinitely less subtly. Both knew about her 'condition,' but Snape doubted either of them really understood just exactly what they were dealing with. He was half tempted to deduct points, but Hermione suddenly shot a surge of annoyance through the bond, and said something suitably scathing to both of the boys, which shut them up. So, relieved of not having any responsibilities for Hermione, they sat down at the table and began to talk Quidditch.

The constant noise of the Great Hall was getting on his nerves. What was taking McGonagall so long? He wished they could just get this whole ordeal over with so that he could go back to his cauldron and continue working on what was turning into yet another dead end. Just when he thought he was going to die from sheer annoyance and boredom, McGonagall, leading a new troupe of doubtless dunderheads and sniveling little babies, entered the Great Hall and walked up to the Sorting Hat.

And the Sorting Hat said to a Great Hall packed with students, old and new:

__

Once when this land was somewhat younger  
Four wizards met who had a hunger  
They needed a place to teach and discern   
And give the young a chance to learn  
So they built Hogwarts.  
Indeed they were all evenly matched  
Two men, two women and a plan they hatched  
Each with their own idea of what, you see,  
The ideal student would be  
So they created four Houses.  
There was Ravenclaw who thought for sure  
That intelligence would be the cure  
And Griffindor who always knew  
That with bravery could one be true  
So they chose their means.  
Oh, but Slytherin understood yet  
That with ambition could goals be met  
And Hufflepuff, who always believed  
That loyalty and hard work was what should be achieved  
So they picked the ways.   
I am but a hat, you know   
But there are so many things that I can show.  
What house you shall live in and forever love  
Until you are dead and gone above.  
So try me on today!  
Wear me now and you'll be happy  
For as sure as Dumbledore loves lemon taffy  
I'll pick the house that you belong  
All these years and I've never been wrong  
So, be a dear, McGonagall, I've finished my song--unroll that parchment and let the year begin!

  
Snape made a rude comment about the Sorting Hat's apparent infatuation with McGonagall (to which she glared at both he and the hat over), and shot Harry a nasty look. Harry was too busy laughing with Ron to notice. Hermione laughed softly, too, but neither was sure whether that was because she actually understood what they were talking about, or if it was due to her 'condition.' So they did what any person their age would: carefully ignore it.

"I swear," chortled Ron as he spit the pumpkin juice he had started to drink back into the cup to keep from choking, "that that hat gets stranger every year."

"Yeah, I dread to think of what it's very first song was!" chimed in Harry. "'I am ye old Sorting Hat/ All four of your teachers are crazy as a bat/They couldn't decide how to pick students like that/So instead they traded you all for a one eyed, ogre eating, steel plated wombat!" They were laughing so hard about their new joke through the rest of dinner (which they didn't eat much of, since it is very hard to eat and laugh at the same time,) that they did not realize how quiet everyone around them had become until Hermione shot them a nasty look and cleared her throat.

"Ah, yes," said Dumbledore with a genuine smile, "thank you Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley for your appreciation of humor. I only wish I had said a joke!"

Snape was giving the two his patented Death Glare. Hermione made a face as if struggling internally with something or _someone_ and finally muttered in an angry voice, "Professor Snape says that's twenty points from Gryffindor for being disrespectful to the Headmaster."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Oh, Hermione, we're quaking in our boots. Really, you're just saying that because of your 'condition.'"

"From each," responded Hermione, suddenly serene.

Horrified, Ron and Harry paused to glare up at Snape. He was smirking back, as if Christmas had come early.

__

Yes, he thought, _there are benefits to this after all!_

"And now, " continued Dumbledore, assumedly oblivious to what had just happened, "I must give a few announcements. The Forbidden Forest is, as the name says, forbidden. Should you be caught, you will most likely not like the creature that has you in its grasp. Mr. Filch would like to remind you to check the list of contraband items, which is now three thousand and seven hundred items strong and growing exponentially. Also, any student caught attempting to play Kick the Cat with Mrs. Norris will find themselves cleaning up after Peeves for a month, with no magic. Peeves, of course, will be happy to oblige you by causing as much destruction as he possibly can." There was a wave of subdued groans; Peeves himself had begun this very popular sport at the end of the last year. "Finally," he said, with a serious face, "in the wake of events that took place at the end of last year, Miss Granger will be in the care of Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape." A wave of sympathetic looks from three of the four tables passed over Hermione, but she wasn't mentally present at the moment to appreciate them. "Professor Snape would like to inform you that any student he finds conducting what he deems as inappropriate behavior directed to or at Miss Granger, whether he is there to witness it or not, will find their house potentially permanently lacking points, and themselves with very… unpleasant detentions. Thank you! Prefects, you may lead your houses back to their common rooms!"

In the chaos to get back to familiar friends, Hermione became separated from Ron and Harry. Wide eyed and terrified, she was pushed around, confused, and lost. Her mind was crying out for panicked help so strong, that it caught Snape by surprise and grated through the remains of own spent nerves. With a hiss of frustration, he swooped down from the staff table and quickly walked towards Hermione. His own pride was as much at stake as hers, so he subtly placed a guiding hand hidden by his billowing robes on her back and urged her forward. She shot him a relieved look and walked, panic subsiding enough that he only felt traces of it left in her mind. "Come along, Miss Granger," he murmured, satisfied with the sudden parting of the crowds as everybody left behind in the Great Hall made room for the two to walk, unabused, out of the room. Being the most hated and feared man in Hogwarts was not without its advantages, either.

Everybody who had not already managed to escape the room during the initial press to return back to the common rooms stared. They had been so sure that the Headmaster had been joking when he had said that Hermione was going to be in _Snape's_ care--after all, Snape was… well… Snape! They would have thought nothing of it if it had been Draco Malfoy under the Potion Master's care, thought only a little of it if it had been any other Slytherin, but now that the proof was before their eyes, the most they could do was stare with shocked, disbelieving eyes. Surely hell would begin to freeze over any minute now?

Snape, in no mood to be the object of surprise and horror, gave them all a glare that would have rivaled even their darkest nightmares, and ushered Hermione to the sanctuary of the dungeons. This was not going to be a very amusing year at all.

***

It was dark. Not purely dark, no, but dark nonetheless. She lay awake, listening. In the silence that flowed forever through this hour of night, she thought, perhaps, she could hear someone speaking. Was it a _troupe of damsels glad?_ Or perhaps _an abbot on an ambling pad,_ (a/n slow, steady horse) or maybe even _a curly shepherd-land, or long-haired page in crimson clad_ _going by to towered Camelot…_The other presence just beyond her reach began to stir from his slumber, but when she hastily dampened her thoughts, he sank back into the depths of oblivion. Slowly, gently, she wrapped tendrils of awareness into his mind--and jerked back as she felt how cold and angry his mind was, even in his sleep. So lonely. But structured. The foundations of his existence held a structured logic that she thirsted for, that she wanted so badly that the pangs and cravings woke her in the middle of the night and made her cry out softly in an animal's whisperings.

The soft creature curled up against her neck caught her attention. It was awake, too, watching her with eyes that saw everything. 

"Who are you?" she said barely loud enough to hear.

__

You asked me that question before. I am Crookshanks. Now I must query: Who are you?

Hermione tried to remember who she was, but the everything was confusing, everything made no sense even to her. Finally, she clung on to a tattered fray of memory from a warp and woof ripped off a loom. "The daughter of Helen."

__

Of Troy?

"Of course."

__

No…

"Hermione."

__

Daughter of dentists?

"Maybe…"

__

Of course.

Hermione sat up and pushed the cat slowly away from her. She felt a headache coming on, and she didn't understand the situation any more than she had a few minutes ago. Surely Lucius would be here soon to talk her ears off about Quidditch, and then they could dance down to Hagrid's Hut for a nice cuppa… The mirror… The mirror was… watching her. Who was that girl on the other side that mocked everything she did?

Quietly, she glared at the offending mirror, trying to figure out the best way to break it. 

The world was prettier on the other side. Clearer. Less distorted. Fewer shadows. Hermione was jealous, and yet, at the same time, she was frightened so bad of what that world might possibly hold for her mind that all she wanted to do was run, run as far away from the mirror as possible.

Hermione ran out of her room and curled up into a big armchair that she had noticed Snape seemed to prefer. It was cold, now, with no comforting warmth to remind her of his presence, of the sacred stability of his mind. He was sleeping. What time was it?

__

Long past midnight.

"How do you know that?" she whispered to the new voice.

__

I am a nocturnal moth. I live my entire life based off of the shadows of the world, created by your orb the moon… The voice was weaker, now, as if the creature was slowly fading back into death.

"Where are you?"

__

Trapped beyond the warded portal… Snape's room.

Hermione cringed. Pieces of her last stay in his room brought on new feelings of fright. She couldn't go in there!--and yet, the moth had been so kind to her, had answered her question, and now it was ticking the minutes away until it would sail down the river on a boat and above the prow she would have wrote _the Lady of_-- Gathering her remaining wits about her, she stormed up to the door to his room. As the moth had said, it was warded. Well, that wasn't quite so much a problem… If she ran her tiny tendrils further enough, she could find how he set his ward…

Suddenly, she knew what he knew. At least, concerning how to open the door.

A slow smile crept across her face as she reached for a wand that wasn't there. But, then again, she realized with a frown, why _would_ it be there? Lucius had never allowed her to get a wand. That was why the Gypsies and the old Gaelic lady had taken pity on her. So how to break the wards without a wand… Eyes quite adjusted to light, now, Hermione stepped lightly over to the shelves where he kept his potions stored.

They were all placed in a very methodical order that made absolutely no sense to her. If they had been stacked randomly, chaotically, even, her mind would have been able to comprehend the complexities posed before her. But order and logic like this? Though her very soul craved it, it was like an insult from the World beyond the Mirror, and it frustrated her to no end. What was she looking for? And where was it? Think! Think wands! _Well, some wands use phoenix feathers, or unicorn tails, or dragon heartstrings…_There was a small bottle of dragon blood on the middle shelf. _Dragon heartstrings come from dragon hearts, and dragon hearts pump blood through dragon veins, therefore dragon heartstrings must have some dragon blood on them when they are put into the wands. Maybe, since I don't see dragon heartstrings or unicorn tails or phoenix feathers, I can use dragon blood instead…_

Despite what one might think, Snape was a very heavy sleeper. Therefore, he did not hear the soft yet maniacal laughter coming from outside his door. Hermione grabbed for the bottle of blood, but was thrown back by another set of wards. Apparently, Snape did not want her messing with his personal potions ingredients, either. So there she sat where she had been thrown back, trying to work her mind around this problem. She did not have to work hard, though, for the cat called Crookshanks had come to see what mischief his mistress was getting into. He sauntered from the library and sat down next to her, purring softly.

A sly expression came across her face. "Crookshanks, will you get that bottle for me? The one marked dragons blood?"

Crookshanks watched her for several minutes, but didn't move.

Taking that for an affirmative, she picked the heavy cat up and held it up above her head in an attempt to facilitate getting onto the middle shelf. Crookshanks, who knew how angry Snape got when somebody messed with his stuff, began to struggle and strain against her grasp, but to no avail. The girl was much stronger than he was and between the two's determined movements more than one bottle of ingredients smashed to the floor and broke, revealing their contents to Hermione. The dragon's blood was one of them.

Humming contentedly to herself, Hermione smeared her hands in the blood and skipped over to the door to Snape's room.

Like an artist creating a masterpiece, she bent over the door, scrawling the words to the charms that would unlock his door even as she spoke them in a reverent voice. Blood slipped down her arm and splattered onto the floor and smeared across the door as she invoked the powers of the magic around her, urging it to come to her aid and do her bidding. It was rather slow work, but what was time to somebody like the distraught creature Hermione had become? But she was rewarded for her determination. Under her demented ministrations, the wards slipped down one by one, until the only thing that stood between her and the moth was an unlocked door. She took a deep, reverent breath and opened it. 

Well greased hinges swung with effortless ease and allowed her access to the room within. The only natural light came from small windows towards the ceiling. As it was, she was having a hard enough time trying to deal with the wanderings of her mind, but now, with the darkness that seemed to pulse from the room despite the tiny amount of moonlight filtering down, she couldn't remember anymore what it was she had been after. In fact, she wasn't quite sure just why she was standing in front of the open door to Snape's room anymore.

Cautiously, she took a step forward.

He was there, on his bed and quite asleep. If his slow and steady breathing hadn't proved it, the odd images of nightmares that crept across the mental bridge did. His hair, black as the midnight outside, was clumped together in strands made sticky by sweat--strange indeed, since the dungeons stayed about a constant and chilly temperature. Blankets and sheets were wrapped around him as though he had already lost one struggle tonight. His face looked like a mask of anguish and fear. _Strange_, she thought, _even in sleep he worries about things._ There were some things he simply couldn't let go. It tugged at her own heartstrings, _maybe I am a dragon_, and made her want to curl up next to him and fall asleep. And yet… She resisted that urge. Why, she couldn't say, but she did and instead chose to quietly cross the room and disappear into his rather large wardrobe. _Mmmm…It's much warmer in here, perfect for a dragon's den or for a cat to curl up and hide._

Hermione spent the night asleep amongst Snape's clean robes and shirts.

***

It was going to be one of those days, Snape knew, as he awoke half strangled by his own traitorous bed linens. Not in the mood to play games until he had taken a shower, he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom that was jointly shared between his room and Hermione's--not that it had mattered in the past; usually the girl was still sleeping by the time he was finished with his shower. So, he grabbed a clean towel, stripped himself of his boxers (which he only slept in for Hermione's benefit--in case she had some kind of an emergency in the middle of the night), ignored his terrycloth robe all together, and disappeared into the bathroom, expecting a tiny bit of privacy. He ran the water as hot as he could without scalding himself, and let it flow against his body and wash away all memories of his dreams. The water was nice and warm; relaxing after a night that had caused most of his muscles to seize up from tension. Maybe, maybe it wouldn't be so horrible a day, after all… 

With a sigh, Snape turned off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist, stepped out of the shower, and froze.

Hermione was standing with her back to the sink and was brushing her teeth. Everything else about her was an absolute mess. Her hands were covered in something that looked suspiciously like dried blood, and her shirt was filthy, stained with the same substance. The way her hair hung in clumps led Snape to suspect that she had run her hands through her hair several times, too. To top everything off, she was giving him a good, long once-over. Really, he wasn't sure if he should be mortified or very, very angry. 

He chose the latter.

Three strides was all it took for him to be hovering over Hermione, and if the situation hadn't been so surreal, they both would have probably been embarrassed by their appearances.

He grabbed one of her arms by the wrists, and examined the blood. Reactivated by the water, it was giving off the acidic scent of dragon blood, and if that was the case, that meant…

"Spit," he growled as he pulled the toothbrush from her mouth and threw it into the sink.

She complied, and allowed herself to be dragged off back through Snape's bedroom and back out into his work room. His grip on her wrists tightened when he saw the mess on the floor. Dragon blood and several other potentially volatile ingredients were mixed in a dried puddle thoroughly laced with shards of broken bottles. Upon the door were strange, nonsensical words and designs in dried, brown flakes There was no doubt in his mind that she had done it, not Peeves--the evidence was all over her hands and shirt. She looked like she was confused. _No mercy. No mercy--she can't be coddled forever! And I don't give a bloody care about the state of her mind--she will answer for this!_

"Explain, now!" Snape barked at her, pushing her towards the mess on the floor and pointing out the door.

Her mind was a swirl of chaotic emotions. Horrified, she shook her head and looked up at him, pleading with her eyes. "I… There… This moth, you see! There was this moth, and I had to save him before he died, but Crookshanks wouldn't help me so I--"

There was simply no time for this. In half an hour, they both would be expected to grace the Great Hall with their presence for breakfast, and he still had to make sure there were no schedule changes for himself and Hermione… "Enough! I see you are turning out to be quite a hopeless case, Miss Granger. I would have expected better from you, but if you insist on being difficult…" She flinched when he said her name. "Come along," he commanded as he yanked on her arm, and all but threw her into the shower. Even only in a towel, he commanded formidable respect and force. He turned the shower on and closed the door, obviously expecting her to take her own clothes off and wash herself.

Instead, she just sat there, her face in her arms, lonely and upset and wishing, wishing… Tired of the shadows that wracked her world and constantly shifted her reality, and wishing that she could be the girl through the mirror.

***********************************************************************************************

__

Sometimes a troupe of damsels glad,  
An abbot on an ambling pad,   
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,  
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,  
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;  
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue,  
The knights come riding two and two:   
She hath no loyal knight and true,  
The Lady of Shalott.

To those so kind in responding, I thank you. It does so feel good to know people care.

And now we must all come to that pointless time in any reader's life where s/he wonders just exactly who is Ibex and why do we care about her lyre (--and why on earth did she quote Shelley for a bio). The sad answer is, Ibex is a figment of Hermione's still quite insanely wayward imagination, and the lyre is just a pretty word. The fact that you even think some odd, silly person named Ibex exists shows that you are trapped in Hermione's mind, also doomed to exist as a figment of her delusional mind (unless you are Severus Snape, and telepathically bonded to Hermione, in which case you are trapped in _with_ her mind, not in it). Actually, it's not Ibex's Lyre, rather it's the Lyre of Ibex, or, perhaps to be more accurate the Lyre Engraved with Ibexes. *I am smirking smugly, if only you could see me.*

In all seriousness, an ibex is a cute little mountain goat, and a lyre is an instrument that was often used as accompaniment to the dramatic readings of Greek poets who honestly had nothing better to do and no life to live. Again you ask, who cares? So why Ibex's Lyre? I hear you say even though that's not what you just said. Because Ibex and Lyre are two really cool sounding words, and the idea of trying to make Ibex a possessive noun was rather appealing to my odd sense of humor (ahem, read _Twister: Wizard's Style_ from my author's page, and you'll understand everything). I don't know, I guess I could have used Alpaca's Guitar, but somehow, it just wouldn't have been the same. The inspiration came from the following picture of Cara Mitten's: http://yerf.com/mittcara/bouzouki.jpg . Lovely work, wish I had that kind of time. More of her art can be viewed at http://yerf.com/mittcara/1.htm . Hmmm, maybe I should have called myself Hippogriff's Bouzuki…

As for the Shelley quote, let's just say I was feeling a little smug with myself and decided I needed a reminder to tone it down…

aries: I am glad that my muses please you. While I cannot always ensure quick updates, I will strive, of course, to keep you from waiting too long for new chapters. I shall warn you now, though, that the next week may, perhaps, be noted for my absence. To make up for that, I've given you an extra big chapter. I hope you were a good little reader and read slowly. ;-D

Tegan: Wow! Unique twist, you say? Thanks! That makes me feel all warm and *original* inside. :) Ah, yes, it was a luring temptation to do the entire story inside Hermione's head; unfortunately (or fortunately, in this case) my thoughts are constantly moving forward along the plot line, and before I really knew what I had written, Snape had woken her up. Ah, but forced telepathy has its own plot gems to be manipulated, no? Poor Severus, tethered to a gorgeous mind gone awry… But if you'll notice, she doesn't exactly want to stay insane any more, does she?

Hermione Black: You command, and I obey. Although Severus wants to know why your last name is Black and if it has anything to do with his nemesis whose first name is Sirius? Just kidding, of course. He's refusing to talk to you at all, especially after that ugly little Twister incident.

witchy_grrl: Actually, the whole pseudo-AU thing amused me, too… ;) I hope the parallels I am striving to create between this fic and The Lady of Shalott aren't too blurred…

hellsong: Thanks for taking the time to review the second chapter. Yes, spelling and grammar are my biggest pet peeves when it comes to reading other work, too… (not to get on my soapbox, but _most_ word processors come with spell checkers, these days…But I shouldn't complain… once in a while, errors do pop up. *sheepish grin* No, really, I fixed the one Twister error! It just takes FF.Net such a long time to refresh…)

ilovespike-02: That comment made all my research justified. ;) Thanks for noticing--I do try my best. 


	4. Half Sick of Shadows

****

The Lady of Shalott

by Hippogriff's Bouzuki

(the author formerly known as Ibex's Lyre)

Nary an apology or excuse to give, I am but a remorseless spawn of a goat... But I hope you like Hermione's schedule. I worked long and hard on it.

I must be gone for about a week, it's looking like. My suggestion is to read slow and savor the flavor of this chapter.

Finally, I demand that everybody say thank you to my muse, Autumnmist! [Thank you, Autumnmist!]

****

Chapter Four: Half Sick of Shadows

__

But in her web she still delights  
To weave the mirror's magic sights,   
For often thro' the silent nights  
A funeral, with plumes and lights  
And music, went to Camelot:  
Or when the moon was overhead,  
Came two young lovers lately wed:   
"I am half sick of shadows," said  
The Lady of Shalott.

~Alfred Lord Tennyson. 

When Hermione crawled out of the shower, she found a clean set of clothes sitting on the counter for her. Apparently Snape was still looking out for her welfare, despite his anger--this was a good sign. Hermione had been rather afraid that he would perhaps abandon her, leave her all alone to suffocate silently in the shadows on this side of the mirror. Instead, a towel hung up on the rack--her towel, she identified, and she used it to dry off her body. Quickly, she threw her sopping wet clothes in a corner for the house elves to take care of, and changed into her new, clean clothes.

Hair dry and curiosity getting the best of her, Hermione crept out of the bathroom and peeked at Snape from the open door to her room. He was kneeling down in front of her puddle of spilt potions with a quill and some parchment, muttering to himself as he took notes. To her relief, he certainly didn't seem angry any more. Rather, surprise and curiosity seemed to be the two biggest emotions she was picking up through him. His mind was going on and on about a possible new use for dragon's blood, when mixed with something he called the Liquid Aurora Australis. He must have felt her reading of his thoughts, for he suddenly looked up at Hermione.

She froze like a deer trapped in car lights as brown eyes met black ones. _I am not a dragon, then. I am a deer. Frighten quick, run fast leap across the meadows hunted by--_

"Well, come on, then!" he said impatiently. "Lucky for you, Miss Granger, it appears that even when you are being a dunderhead, your mistakes are better than Longbottom's." With a flick of his wrist, he had pulled out his pocket watch, examined the time, and put it back away. "And now it is time for breakfast. McGonagall will be furious with me if I don't make you attend, if only so that you can get your schedule." At that comment, he put up his parchment and smirked slightly. The last thing he needed was to give the Gryffindor head of house something else to heckle him about. 

Hermione hesitantly walked over to him and followed him out of the door, wondering if his change of mood was real or but another shadow.

***

The four long tables in the Great Hall were, not surprisingly, already filled with numerous hungry and excited children. Owls were flying everywhere delivering mail and packages. Hindered heads of houses were forced to compete with the post owls for the children's attention as they tried valiantly to hand out the new schedules. The fact that Snape was busy attending Hermione meant that the Slytherin house was being inconvenienced for a Gryffindor mudblood, of all things. None of them were too happy about it, but seeing the firm scowl on their head of house's face as he walked up to Professor McGonagall and examined Hermione's new schedule, none of them decided to say anything, either.

"Her official schedule, Severus, exactly as she requested last year. I expect you find it satisfactory, as you've already seen it several times now…" McGonagall asked crisply, somewhat amused at Snape's sudden fussing over Hermione's schedule. Wonders would never cease to happen, now would they? The next thing you knew, Snape would be announcing that he had found a way to end all suffering.

"Perfectly," he murmured, still looking at it. "Here, Minerva. Hand this to Mister Malfoy so that he can pass them out to Slytherin." A large stack of parchment was absently held out for McGonagall to take.

Somewhat miffed by Snape's dismissal, she took the Slytherin schedules from Snape and walked off towards their table.

Indeed, Hermione's schedule was exactly as it should be. On it was written:

****

8:00

****

9:00

****

12:00

****

1:00

****

3:00

****

5:00

****

7:00

****

Monday

****

Breakfast

Advanced Transfigurations

Hufflepuff

****

Lunch

Care of Magical Creatures VII

Slytherin

Defense Against the Dark Arts VII

Slytherin

Seventh Year Project

****

Supper

****

Tuesday

****

Breakfast

Advanced Potions

Slytherin

****

Lunch

Advanced Herbology

Hufflepuff

Advanced Ancient Runes

Ravenclaw

Advanced Arithmancy

Ravenclaw

****

Supper

****

Wednesday

****

Breakfast

Advanced Charms

Hufflepuff

****

Lunch

History of Magic VII

Ravenclaw

Advanced Transfigurations

Hufflepuff

Seventh Year Project

****

Supper

****

Thursday

****

Breakfast

Care of Magical Creatures VII

Slytherin

****

Lunch

Defense Against the Dark Arts VII

Slytherin

Advanced Potions

Slytherin

Advanced Herbology

Hufflepuff

****

Supper

****

Friday

****

Breakfast

Advanced Ancient Runes

Ravenclaw

****

Lunch

Advanced Arithmancy

Ravenclaw

Advanced Charms

Hufflepuff

Seventh Year Project

****

Supper

He showed it to Hermione and let her absorb the new information. "You won't have Potions until tomorrow, but it will be Double Potions." He made a disgusted face at the thought of having to teach Double Potions to Gryffindor, but continued on. "Come back to my classroom at five o'clock. We'll… discuss… your project then. Potter!" Harry snapped up from his glaring.

"Yes, sir?"

"Your schedule has many similarities to Granger's. Make sure she gets to all of her classes safely," he said in a silky voice that foretold doom should Harry fail to do so. Despite himself, Harry gulped and nodded, resorting back to glaring at the Potions Master only after Snape's back was turned and was on his way to the staff table. When Snape was safely gone, Ron and Harry examined Hermione closely for signs of torture and poison. Well, she was pale, but from lack of sleep. And she was thin, but she had spent most of the summer on hospital food, so that was excusable. She was completely off her rocker, but she had been that way (so McGonagall told them) since even before Snape gained custody of her. Really, they couldn't find anything to use against Snape. So, once they were satisfied that Snape had done nothing to harm her, they relaxed and tried to strike up a conversation with their friend.

"'Lo, Hermione," said Harry as he buttered a piece of toast for her and then spread marmalade over it. 

__

So it's back to treating me like I'm an idiot again, she thought, somewhat amused. She accepted the piece of toast without a word, wanting to see just how far the two would baby her. "'Lo," she responded, and bit into the piece of toast.

Ron, not to be outdone by Harry and still somewhat harboring the vestiges of his fourth year crush, poured Hermione a glass of pumpkin juice (really, she was not sure just _why_ being a witch or a wizard automatically meant you liked odd foods like pumpkin juice and chocolates containing real cockroaches in them) and filled her plate with food. Then, gentleman that he was, Ron put her napkin on her lap and cut up the larger pieces bacon for her and--

"Ron," she said in her clearest, sweetest tone, "I am insane, not an invalid. I can get food for myself without you having to worry about me. And I am not going to stab anybody with that knife, although I would appreciate it if somebody would let me know when the next dueling club begins, because I swear if you all continue to treat me like I am a baby, I just might kill hex you all into next week. And no, Professor, there is nothing wrong, so just stay out of my mind, will you? You're making everybody look at me as if I was insane." In fact, everybody around her within about a ten foot area really was giving Hermione strange looks, and edging away. Hermione began to eat, oblivious.

"Okay…" said Ron. "I'm not even going to ask what that was about. Let's just chalk it up to 'condition' and move on."

"Yes, let's," Hermione agreed, eyeing Ron carefully, and turning back to Harry. _Who are these strangers and why are they here?_ "So when is the next Quidditch class, anyway?"

***

As first class of the day, Transfigurations was also the longest. Hermione listened intently as Professor McGonagall lectured on finer points of transfiguring. "You may think that it is an easy thing to transfigure an inert object into a living one," she said. "Therefore, it should be even easier to change an already living creature into another living creature. This is not the case. A person truly advanced can change a mouse into an elephant, but I highly doubt that any of you will get very far on your first try. Today we will begin by changing a mouse into a rat. Now, as each of you will only get one mouse, make sure it does not run away. No, Miss Brown, these mice will not bite you. You may begin once you get your mouse."

McGonagall sat at her desk, and the attempts began. Chaos reigned, as mice and frustration went free. Ron was furiously trying to transfigure his mouse, but it was rather hard to when the creature kept on running off his desk and attempting mad dashes for freedom. Harry was having moderate success. His mouse, at least, wasn't going anywhere--he had petrified it. Neville was having his most successful lesson yet. He had succeeded in transfiguring his mouse into a rat. The only problem was that the rat was stone.

Transfigurations was traditionally one of Hermione's best classes, and yet, she simply made no attempt.

"Is there a problem, Miss Granger?" McGonagall queried.

"Well, it's just that I don't have a wand. Professor." Hermione frowned slightly, and bit her lip. Half of her said that she had never owned a wand. The other half said that indeed, she had. Perhaps Lucius had let her borrow one once? No, that wasn't right…

"Ah, yes. Here," McGonagall pulled a long wand out from her robes and handed it to Hermione. "Madam Pomfrey said that you could have your wand as long as you were supervised."

"Tough break," whispered Ron when she had returned to her seat. "I can't imagine not being able to keep my wand with me wherever I go."

__

Well, this is a slight improvement… At least he's actually talking to me like a normal person would…"I lived most of my life without a wand. I think I can manage this," Hermione returned. She scratched the mouse on the head as she would Crookshanks, and smiled at it as it squirmed around and tried to join its fellows in the race for freedom. "Please stay still. It won't hurt, you know."

__

I want to be a mouse, not a rat.

"Why not?" When she noticed some of the Hufflepuffs around her were giving her odd looks, she began to whisper. "Why don't you want to be a rat?"

__

Well, would you like to be a rat?

A shudder passed through her. "No, because then I might turn out to be just like Wormtail."

__

So why do you think I would want to be a rat?

Hermione bit her bottom lip again, thinking. "Gee," Harry said, with a playful smile on his face, "what are you doing, torturing that thing? I've never seen a mouse squeak so much before!"

"For your information, Harry, we were having a conversation." A thought struck her mind, and her hand shot up in the air. "Professor?" she asked, to get McGonagall's attention.

McGonagall was surprised--she had certainly not been expecting this from Hermione so soon. Perhaps it was a good sign--perhaps it meant that her prized student was 'getting better'? If so, she would have to tease Severus about it later. "Yes, Miss Granger?" 

"My mouse doesn't want to be a rat."

An odd look crossed the professor's face. "Well, it is the assignment, Miss Granger. Your marks today count on your participation and success. Try to turn the mouse into a rat."

With a sigh, Hermione looked back down at the mouse. "I'm sorry, but we have to do something," she whispered. "Since you don't want to be a rat, what will you let me transfigure you into?"

The mouse paused a moment, as if in thought, and then squeaked happily back up at her, _A polar bear. _Seeing her pale, it hastily reassured, _It is not all that hard, if I let you. Besides, a polar bear is much more dignified than a rat._

Well, the mouse had a point. Really, Hermione couldn't think of anybody who would voluntarily be a rat--unless it was a rat to begin with.But then, that wasn't true, either! What about the people in India, who had adored rats and had considered them sacred? Well, maybe it was just European rats. Nobody wanted to be a European rat. "Okay, as long as you cooperate." She put the mouse on the floor (she didn't want to break the desk) and aimed her wand. Nobody was paying much attention to her anymore--Ron and Harry were too focused on their own efforts, and Professor McGonagall was busy attending another student across the room.

Instead of running off like Hermione had expected it to, the mouse sat and looked up expectantly at her. So, she took a deep breath, pointed her wand at the mouse, and concentrated on trying to transfigure it into a polar bear. Slowly, as if the mouse was willing it to be so, the fur began to grow longer and more coarse. _I can do this. Nobody believes I can. I will show them. I am Hermione Granger through the mirror, and I am tired of being on this side of it. _The body began to enlarge as the tail grew shorter. Somewhere in a distant land, somebody was calling her name and everyone else was staring at her, but she ignored them all.She grabbed the knowledge of her own mind, the power and the warped memories of previous transfigurations and wrapped them around her concentrating mind. _I am not alone in my own mind. There are other experiences to be gleaned. He can help me, lend me power…_She grabbed his memories and experiences, wove them along with his own concentration into hers. _Is our whole greater than the sum of our parts?_ Paws became enormous and padded, the appendages of a polar bear. Jaws and teeth vicious, nose black, eyes intelligent, ears hidden. The other voice had silenced, now, as all eyes stared at what Hermione had done.

Exhausted, she let go of all her concentration, borrowed and her own, let the memories and experiences sink back into whence they had come. Or rather, what she had borrowed from the other mind was ripped out of her grasp by the furious other, and she knew even before Snape threw the door open and all but ran into McGonagall's classroom that he would come.

***

As soon as Defense Against the Dark Arts was over, Hermione slipped past Harry and Ron and made her way to the dungeons. The Potions classroom door was open and the last few victims, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw third years, were escaping as fast as they could. It would appear that Snape was not in a good mood. So, as she peeked her head into the door, she looked for the seat that would be safest and farthest away from Snape, and sat in it.

He was not happy, at all, and Hermione was sure she knew why. Sour, angry words slipped through his mind too fast for her to pick up on, but their afterthoughts burned like acid through her own mind. Still, best to let him make the opening move. For several long minutes, the scratching of a quill was all that she heard, and she could only assume that he was recording lost points for either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, or perhaps both, depending on how vicious he was feeling. If this was not a detention, then why did it feel so much like it was? 

Finally, he looked up at Hermione and glared at her. Now she could understand the thoughts, as he was too angry to control them and they seeped into her mind as they had during Transfigurations. Ironic, as it was exactly those memories he was examining. 

__

As it had been near the end of the class, Snape had been glowering at fifth year Gryffindors frantically trying to finish up what Snape considered a mind-numbingly simple poison detecting potion. Unfair, he knew, but then again, life wasn't fair, was it? First class of the first day of the term, and already he felt that he was in some sort of hell as hormones and the obnoxiousness of teen-agers crept into his solitude and invaded every aspect of his life.

Tiny tendrils of an odd sensation, like a gentle breeze, flowed through his mind and surprised him. It was the only warning he got before suddenly he felt his mind, his thoughts, his entire higher state of being ensnared and woven into the existence and consciousness of Hermione Granger Lady beyond the Mirrors lost in the shadows… For one brief moment, he was Hermione, knew what Hermione knew, thought what Hermione thought. For one moment, they were one entity, complete and whole, using their combined efforts to transfigure the mouse the rest of the way into a polar bear. Her determination was his, her fears, his, her frustrations, his, and he understood completely and utterly everything there was to understand about Hermione.

And in that one instant, he saw something he hadn't seen before, a connection he hadn't yet made. In that one instant, the symbols on the stone that protected the memories of the siren glowed intensely brilliant-- and then it was gone. It could only mean …His mind leapt from the first time he had been in Hermione's mind, the night she thought she was a dancer, and then back to her false memories of her past with Lucius--but pieces of the puzzle were missing, locked away behind the stone walls etched with stone text, and it was becoming more apparent than ever that the key to what he was looking for was entombed behind those barriers.

Angry that he hadn't seen paid more attention to these blocked memories, and even more angry that she had been able to take complete control of him, he ripped his mind from hers. He refused to admit how truly frightening it had been to know that even he was mortal, that he had his moments of weakness, and even more frightened with how intimate the experience had been. It had been even closer than the telepathy brought them, had stripped him of all his defenses and all of hers, had… Instead, he covered it up with other concerns. She needed attended now, before she had the chance to lapse further into her state of impaired reasoning, and did something that would be… unpleasant. His lapse had been momentary, and his class had not noticed; Snape was not sure whether or not this was a good or bad thing. So he gave a stinging remark about incompetence and dismissed the class on that. They did not waste time in removing themselves from his sight.

He almost ran to McGonagall's class and threw the door open. She was trying to transfigure the polar bear back into a mouse, but as she had already told the class, it took a lot of skill and energy. Immediately, Snape drew his wand out and with their combined efforts (and his ability to ignore the irony of the situation) the two teachers managed to change the giant white creature into a tiny white creature. Hermione was pale and over-exhausted. Small wonder--she had already had half of the creature transfigured before she had sought out his help. But he couldn't really praise her, now could he? After all, he knew full well that she knew she had blatantly disobeyed McGonagall's orders. Like crying in the bathroom and then tackling a mountain troll her first year--and afterwards lying about it. Fortunately for his dilemma, the situation took care of itself. Minerva took off twenty points from Gryffindor for endangering her classmates, but gave her twenty-five for succeeding such a difficult transfiguration on her first attempt. Typical, Snape sneered; the girl once again received points for disobeying rules…

Realizing that he was leaking his thoughts into her mind, Snape pulled a tight reign on them and tried to block them off from the girl as best as he could. He didn't have to ask her why she had done what she had done; he already knew. Oh, yes, the conversation with the mouse. So, what to do with the girl?

"Sir," she began, finally nervous and recovered from her first conscious and strong glimpse into his mind. "I needed to prove that I could do it--everybody thinks I'm somehow stupid, that I'm incapable--"

"I know, girl," he sneered, cutting her off. "You don't have to tell me. I share your mind, remember? Or do you do so only when it's convenient to use me?"

The words stung, and she looked down. Contemplating her words, choosing them carefully, wandering through the shards and trying to sort everything out. "It's not easy being insane," she said finally. "It's not like I want to be this way, like I enjoy this odd sense of… I don't even know. Everything seems so right when I do it, and I don't see the consequences until after I've done it--if even then. It's like I live in two worlds, and I never know which world I am in. I confuse them…" _I wish…But it doesn't even really matter to you so I don't know why I'm telling you. You'll only mock me anyway._

Maybe it's because I don't know how to… "I think, Miss Granger, the first project we will do, and I say we because it is clear you don't have the self-control…" _admit that maybe _"to do this by yourself," _it does matter to me… _"is to try and unlock what it was that you threw your mind away for."

__

I wish I could break the mirror but I'm so afraid of the pieces of glass and how deep they'll cut.

And I am afraid of what I'll--we'll find on the other side of that wall.

****************************************************************************************

Okay, it's everybody's favorite time:

Bellemaine Chercoeur- (My, my, has it been ages since I last took French) Aha! I am so very glad that I am getting the attempts at insanity correct. It's hard to find that balance between absurdity and logic, and sometimes I fret that I am being too logical. Thanks for your insight.

Tegan- First off, you are truly wonderful, keeping up with me like that. I agree--Hermione and problem solving come hand in hand--it's part of her fundamental nature, and I felt that I would be short changing her if I suddenly turned her into an invalid wench crying out for people to help her; Snape's not the type to coddle her even if she did.

lunar47- I'm glad you like the fic. I like it too. Snape does not. He's threatening to sue for libel, not that he can prove a thing! He says my characterization of him is poor and makes him look like a heartless son of a--well, to paraphrase, anyway, he says he wants me to write a softer, more caring Snape into the story. A Snape who secretly writes romance stories. A Snape who wears cute pajamas with fluffy bunnies on them and--Rest assured, this is not going to happen. ;)

hellsong- Ohh, you'll never guess in a million years…

****KK- Mmm, 'Coal-black curls…' The telepathy *does* work both ways. Hermione used it to figure out what wards Snape used on his door in Chapter 3, and she also used it a little more extensively in this chapter. The problem is that Hermione is not at this moment functioning 100% mentally, and she hears a lot of voices (not to be cliched). She does not exactly know that there is a telepathic bond; she knows that there is a "he" but she is not thinking enough to realize that "he" and "she" are not just one and the same. Make any sense now? Because I just lost myself, there… It's good that you are picking up the parallels. Does Hermione die? Good question. :) And no, I don't believe in senseless killing, either, so you may breathe a little easier.

Aurinia- What a wonderful compliment! I'm sorry I scared you off the first time, but I'm glad you came back. I hope that you will continue to find meaning in my work.


	5. Barley-Sheaves

****

The Lady of Shalott

by Alpaca's Guitar

(the author formerly known as the author formerly known as Ibex's Lyre)

Okay, everybody, I'm back. Sort of. It's going to be hectic for a while, but it *is* that time of the year. I expect everything to be back as it was oh, by the time hell freezes over, or when Snape finishes working on his romance books and debut into the world of fluffy literature.

Note: Okay, I was playing around with the schedule I gave in chapter four. One way I played with it (and yes, it took me hours to map this, but that was okay, since I had no access to a computer anyway, and had nothing better to do) was where I rotated all the classes (as is hinted) and also days that the students had to do a seventh year project ... for example, one week, she would have to work on her project on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and the next week she would work on it just on Tuesdays and Thursdays.) Well, this was just evil and needlessly complicated. So, the next thing I tried was to just rotate all the classes. It was a little less complicated, but still ugly. The third thing I tried was to just leave her schedule as is--therefore, every Monday is double Transfigurations, every Tuesday double Potions, etc. This is, I think, the best way, least complicated, makes most sense. It also means Hermione has two classes of each a week, with the exception of the History of Magic, which is a good thing, anyway. Keeping that in mind, I'm too lazy to figure out exact dates for 1997, which would be her seventh year (I believe) so... the dates and their corresponding day of the week are based on the year 2002-2003. For example, her birthday is on the 19th, which is a Thursday. I hope that clears up any confusion even before it happens.

Remember my muse, Autumnmist? Well, you may all thank her again for her Neville conversation. (We thank you Autumnmist! We do!)

I suppose I owe you all an apology for my conspicuous absence this past week. Fortunately for my pride, I refuse to give apologies--or excuses, for that matter. Will you all accept an I.O.U.? 

****

Chapter Five: Barley-Sheaves

__

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,  
He rode between the barley-sheaves,   
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,  
And flamed upon the brazen greaves  
Of bold Sir Lancelot:  
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd,  
To a lady in his shield,   
That sparkled on the yellow field,  
Beside remote Shalott.

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

It was Thursday, her birthday, and it was also the first Quidditch game of the year, which meant that her last class of the day, Herbology, was canceled. Unfortunately, she still had to get through an entire two hours of Potions before that fun, which meant that time was traveling at a cursedly slow pace and she still had an hour and a half with all these blasted dunderheads with whom intelligence seemed to be a foreign entity alien to them and if Miss Brown gave Mister Finnigan one more side-glance, she was going to have detention for the rest of her Hogwarts career--however short it was going to become after she, Severus Snape--

Hermione mentally shook her head and pulled away from the Potions Master's infuriated thoughts. The _last_ thing Hermione wanted was to become privy to Snape's internal dialogue.

"Miss Brown, do you have a question?" Snape snapped, and Hermione unconsciously glared at the girl as well. As she could not make more than a squeak of fear escape her lips, Lavender shook her terrified head, seemingly just as surprised as Ron and Harry that Hermione was apparently siding with Snape, of all people. Snape, however, seemed satisfied with the fear coming from Lavender's eyes, and allowed his frown to deepen. "Then I suggest you pay... attention..." A glance down at her cauldron showed it overflowing onto the desk and ruining all the books she had placed on there. "Fifteen points from Gryffindor for such obvious negligence, and a detention, I think, shall suffice. It will be taken with Mr. Filch, who has better things than a Quidditch game to waste time with. Now clean up this appalling mess, and go."

Lavender gaped up at him, utterly devastated and tears forming in her eyes. Then, she glanced over at Hermione, but there was no sympathy in the girl's eyes. Parvati came to Lavender's aid, glaring back at Hermione, but the damage was already done. The distraught Lavender grabbed the rest of her supplies and ran as fast as she could out of the room. With a shrug, Hermione turned back to her own cauldron and with a love of what she was doing she had never possessed before, readjusted the heat underneath so that it would not repeat Lavender's cauldron. Steady hands sliced the heartbud carefully and dropped it in after a precisely measured time. Harry and Ron were giving her odd looks.

"Wasn't that a little harsh of you, Hermione?" Harry asked quietly, as not to give Snape more reason to take points from Gryffindor. She was becoming quite good at conveying aloofness and haughty pride with just the slight turn of her head or expressionless gaze, he noted silently. And while he didn't know the exact details of what had gone on between her and the siren, he did know enough that Hermione had been permanently changed from what she once was. No pretending like Ron, no fervent hoping that once she was 'cured' from her condition that everything would be back to normal; no, Harry and Ron were responsible for what had happened, in part at least, and the only thing they could do was accept that she was irrevocably another person. Still... still... it was sometimes hard to accept what he saw.

"What was harsh?" she asked him, genuinely confused. A flick of her wrist, and the exact amount of rose stone was simmering in her cauldron. Then, somewhat to herself, she murmured, "if I add the rose stone now, it serves the same purpose and is much simpler than waiting until the last moment with the infusion of monkfish scales and powdered rain cactus thorn. And I don't have to--"

Suddenly, Harry realized Snape was scowling in Hermione's direction. As she spoke, the scowl grew more intense. Finally, he swooped down to her and spoke. "That is quite enough, Miss Granger. Might I remind you that I, and not you, am the Potions Master of this class? Next time you will do as I say and add the monkfish and cactus. Five points, and stay after class." He then proceeded to walk over to the Slytherin side of the room and praise Draco for ingenuity for doing the exact same thing, testament to Draco's powers of observation and ability to cheat.

"That dirty, slimy git," Ron growled as soon as Snape's back was turned.

"Ron, he was only doing what he thought was necessary," Hermione responded. "It's not easy being Draco." She frowned, though, and wondered why Lucius would want make his son a dancer, too. Or... was that... death eater? She sighed and reached the tendrils of her mind deeper into his, searching for stability. Snape jerked his head suddenly towards her and cold, piercing eyes searched hers. For a brief, frightening moment, Hermione was afraid that he would reject her, send her back across the Bridge, but then he nodded ever so slightly, and allowed her to cling to his mind and logic and rational thought like a drowning person. A great, relieved sigh escaped her lips. "And twenty-five points for calling Snape a slimy git."

Neville Longbottom ruined her fleeting feeling of peace. "Um... Hermione?" he whispered. It must be something really horrible for him to be stuttering like that. Indeed, it was. His cauldron looked like it was about to explode. Again. "C--could you he--help me?"

"Of course," she said, and quickly began to shift through his ingredients. "You forgot to add your powdered chimera fang before your monkfish scales and powdered rain cactus. I think, I can fix it, but it will be--" change of expression and air. "No, no I can't help you. Professor Snape says I can't." 

"N-nno?"

"No. If I did then you would never learn. And that--here. See?" she said as she poured a smoking liquid from a bottle Neville never knew he had into another, smaller cauldron and began to chop ingredients and then toss them into the simmering liquid.

"But I thought... That you weren't---weren't..."

She frowned again. "Thought what? You, Neville Longbottom, had a coherent thought? Now _that_ would be a first, indeed! Now, you have about three minutes in which to rectify your error before your cauldron explodes and covers you with its entire corrosive contents. Really, incredible that you cannot even prepare a simple neuron blocking potion without even a single mishap!"

"H-hermione?"

"What, Neville? I thought we already fixed your cauldron?" Hermione peered over at his and paled. Neville, in the meantime, was slowly backing away from his apparently schizophrenic friend. "Umm, Neville, there is no helping you at this point... I think... I think it would be best if you--" she jumped back as his cauldron did explode, spreading the noxious, malformed neuron potion all over anyone so unfortunate as to be near by. Hermione, somehow, managed to escape, but Neville, Harry, Ron, and several others, including a few Slytherins, did not.

"Idiot boy!" hissed Snape, who had been well aware of what was going to happen--even without Hermione. "Perhaps I should just let the potion seep into your veins and swim through your skin, slowly killing off all your neurons!" He had, of course, already begun to administer the antidote to the Slytherin half of the room. Draco was moaning out loud, milking the sympathy for all it was worth, just as he had done in the third year when Buckbeak had attacked him. "Enough," he murmured to Draco. "You may go to the infirmary if you so deem necessary. It would be a shame for you to miss the Quidditch match because of this, now wouldn't it?"

Draco, with a look of triumph in his eyes, exited, and the rest of class began to clean up their cauldrons--as soon as they received Snape's antidote.

Hermione sighed, and tidied up her desk. She hadn't even gotten to test her potion. Oh, of course, she knew it would work, but still... When everybody else left, she stayed exactly where she was and waited for Snape to explain why he had wanted her to stay. "You know, you could have just left me alone to help Neville, instead of trying to control me like that..."

"I know," Snape smirked down at her. "But it was much more entertaining this way. Besides, you will not always be there to coddle the boy."

Now there was a revelation--Snape had a sense of humor. If she wasn't so angry, Hermione would have smiled. "I wasn't coddling him! And he wouldn't need help if you didn't act so--"

"Enough!" he snapped, and sat down in front of her. His presence was overwhelming, and yet, at the same time, comforting. He was right in front of her, to brace her, if need be, to keep her sane and glue the shards back together. To wrap his mind around hers and engulf her in sweet, sweet sanity. A mental guardian angel. A dark, looming, bat-like one whose thoughts were dark and morose at best, who looked at the world with anger and jealousy, but an angel none the less. "We have... other things... to discuss. There is still half an hour before the Quidditch game starts, and I intend to use it."

***

"It's just a box!" Hermione hissed, well and truly exasperated. This was taking longer than a half an hour, and nothing was changing. Some birthday this was turning out to be. "We've been examining the box for three weeks now, and I still talk to animals, I'm still insane!"

"It's not just a box, Miss Granger. Now try again. What do you remember? And don't make me drag you down memory lane--I can guarantee it won't be pleasant."

She conjured up a mental chair and sat, glaring defiantly at him. Oh, he was right, she knew, but it didn't mean she was willing to admit it. "Fine," she said, "We can go through this again, if only to give you more reasons to take points from Gryffindor."

But this time, it was different.

***

The two women were back, allowing snakes to slither all over their bodies. Snakes were sacred to them, after all.

It had always been them and only them.

One, the oldest, smiled at her. "Ah, yes, you paid the price for your knowledge, didn't you? But you asked a worthy question. Questions. Very clever of you."

"What are you, really?" Hermione asked, confused.

"You should be able to figure it out. Cool use of logic under fire--does that sound familiar?" the other one said, smiling coldly. "Just remember the folly of falling in love--you wouldn't want to freeze your blood, now would you?"

Hermione turned around and tried to run, but the way was blocked by a tall man who looked down at her with cold contempt. Black eyes burned deeply into brown ones, and when she tried to pull away, he held her tightly against his hard, lean body with a strong arm around her waist. He drank an amber liquid from a brandy snifter with his other even as she struggled to get away. Something warm, sinuous, pulsating pressed against her abdomen and slithered upwards--it was a snake, crawling just underneath his skin and still he drank, looking down at her as if she was simply a loathsome vessel to be abused and thrown away--

Firmly Snape altered his appearance back into his true image and then forced the rest of Hermione's mind to adjust back to the real world. She had her eyes squeezed shut and her face buried in his chest. Her entire body was shaking from fear and exhaustion. Somehow he managed to turn her head gently to the side and pressed the snifter up to her lips. Once the warm liquid slid down her throat did she relax enough to hear the strong beating of his heart and smell his unique, comforting scent.

"Are you going to open your eyes any time soon?" he drawled in an amused voice.

She shook her head.

Snape dropped his arm from around her waist and tried to pull away. "Well, Miss Granger, I would hate to miss Slytherin tromp all over Gryffindor in Quidditch for your sake. That is, assuming Mister Malfoy made it safe and sound from the infirmary?"

That did open her eyes. He was smirking down at her.

"I don't think so, Professor," she smiled up at him. "If I remember correctly, granted that I'm not quite right in the head, but if I do indeed remember correctly, Slytherin does not have a chance against Gryffindor." A thought suddenly popped in her head, one that hadn't occurred to her before. "But isn't it a bit early in the year for a game?"

"Nervous, Granger? Is that why you're changing the subject?"

"By no means, Professor! But isn't?"

Snape frowned. "Madam Hooch decided that we needed more games throughout the year. Apparently she's grown bored and has decided to take it out on the rest of us. Now come on before all the good seats in the faculty box are taken. I do not feel particularly like sitting next to Trelawney, who, despite all common sense and reason, has decided to take a liking to the game. I expect the apocalypse to begin at any moment now, and if I am not mistaken, hell has already begun to freeze over."

He pushed Hermione away from him and in the direction of the door. Willingly, she obliged, too occupied with the other thoughts to give much fight. As was the Potions Master.

He frowned behind her, pondering this new illusion of hers. While he was not quite certain what exactly it meant, he was more or less glad that they had fit in one more attempt--even if they had not yet cracked the stone surrounding those memories.

By keeping a firm grasp on her mind, he had managed to, while not cure her, exactly--the loom was still warped--keep her more sane than she had been before. This... mind dream, therefore, was not a coincidence.

And while it was very invasive and required a lot of cooperation on her part and conscious effort on his, both ended up exhausted at the close of the day--exhausted enough to keep them both asleep throughout the long nights. Hermione's life and state of mental well being was now dictated entirely by Snape. Her mind was left to run its course at night when he had no conscious control over it at all. Early morning, when he was still partially asleep, (Snape was not a morning person) her mind had a waning free reign. By breakfast time in the Great Hall, after tea or coffee, depending on what kind of a morning it was, Hermione was thinking as rationally as she ever had. Nightfall and exhaustion allowed the illusions to wax again, trapping Hermione as neatly as Lupin was by a natural cycle.

By the time they got there, the faculty box was already full. Much to Snape's annoyance, the two were forced to squeeze together next to Professors Sprout and Dumbledore. The old wizard waved happily at the two, and motioned for them to sit. "Ah, Severus, so nice of you to join us and to bring Miss Granger with you!"

"Knowing Potter and his ability to attract trouble, I felt I had an obligation to make sure the boy doesn't get into any more trouble than normal."

Hermione begged to differ, but she was wise enough to keep her mouth closed.

__

Yes, very wise of you, Miss Granger.

She glared up at him. _Is baiting students a sport with you or merely a pass-time?_

Mmm... both. I call it twisting the Gryffindor's tail.

And we call placating you patting the Basilisk's head.

"Ten points, I think, for your cheek, Miss Granger," he replied out loud, in a particularly waspish tone.

"What?" she cried, horrified. "Sir, you can't take points off for thinking!"

"She's right you know, Severus!" Dumbledore chuckled. "After all, if you could, the only house with any points left would be Slytherin and you would be a most unpopular teacher."

Snape snorted at this and shot Hermione a nasty glance. Which only got much worse when he heard the next voice call from the door of the faculty box.

"Yeh'll 'ave ter all scoot over now!" came the loud, booming voice of Hagrid. "Thought I migh' sit 'ere instead o'with Gryffindor terday."

"Oh, joy," muttered Snape as suddenly everybody in his row was pushed even closer together and Hermione suddenly fit neatly against him. In an attempt to make more room, he put his hands on his knees, only to feel her fill in the space with her body. Strands of unruly auburn hair clung to his robes and brushed against his own. Snape managed to keep his discomfort in his own mind, however, and was relieved that none of it leaked out to Hermione.

Fortunately, the game started and then even he was distracted from the feeling of Hermione's thighs pressed up against his.

As soon as Hermione was sure Snape was distracted, she let her thoughts run free. Oh, but it had felt so good to be able to think rationally! True, since he would be concentrating mostly on the game, her mind wouldn't be held as rigidly into line, but at the moment, it was a small price to pay for a little privacy. Hermione was positive he had no idea just how much of his thoughts and emotions flitted through her mind despite his best attempts to reign them in. Over the past few weeks, their minds had become more and more entangled, the bond seemed to be growing stronger. Or. . . was she just imagining that, too?

But he had been uncomfortable when she touched him. Why?

Gentle butterfly-like tendrils of thought brushed through his mind--and were firmly repelled by him. Snape spared her a brief glance. "Kindly keep out of my mind and watch the game, Miss Granger," he said and turned his own attention back to Slytherin. 

There! A burst of mixed emotions associated with that memory!

She hadn't believed it, but she was almost positive now... A slow smile crossed her face as she looked up at his. She studied him until-- 

"As repulsive as you must find my visage, you do not need to stare. I thought even Gryffindors were taught that was not polite..."

"Not repulsive," she murmured, and paid attention to the Quidditch game for the first time that afternoon.

"What?" She could feel the surprise (quickly stemmed).

Smile still on her face, she shook hear head. The game was tied at the moment, with both Slytherin and Gryffindor a hundred and thirty points each. As Slytherin suddenly stole the Quaffle from Gryffindor and hurried for their own set of hoops, she could feel Snape tense up in anticipation. Though he hadn't shown it on his face, Hermione got a glimpse of Snape she hadn't expected--he really _did_ enjoy the game.

A glint of gold caused the crowd to gasp and stand up to get a better view--and Snape's grasp on Hermione's mind faltered.

There was a sunburst, and when Hermione looked up, she saw not humans, but animals. Where Draco Malfoy had been, there was a ferret on a broomstick--Harry was now a lion?--or was that an antlerless elk-she couldn't tell in the glare of the sun. She could even see the catlike form of Professor McGonagall two rows in front of her. Animals. She was completely surrounded by animals. . .except for. . . "Oh, no. . ." she muttered to herself. Except for the two Gypsy women, who were sitting on the opposite side of the stands with he Ravenclaws, waving at her. And, on the other side, more hidden but desperately trying to catch her eye, was the Gaelic woman, sitting with the hard working, yet loyal Hufflepuffs.

This was no mad illusion or horrible coincidence, either, and Hermione was determined to get to the bottom of this. Now. Already on her feet, Hermione tore out of the faculty box, running as fast as she could towards the Hufflepuff stands. Somebody grabbed her from behind, and there was another burst of light; she knew that the animals were people again and the Gypsies were gone.

"No!" she sobbed, trying desperately to tear herself from whomever's grasp she was in.

"Miss Granger, as upset about Gryffindor losing to Slytherin as you doubtlessly are, there still is no reason for such useless histrionics." Snape turned her around so that she was facing him.

"No! No! No!" came the exhausted, inhuman moan. "I was so close," and she began to sink to the ground as her knees gave way. Flashes of memories began to flitter through Snape's mind, and suddenly he knew what she knew. He grabbed her, kneeling down as she sank and suddenly, for the second time that day, she was hanging onto Snape like a drowning person--only this time he had both arms around her and was rubbing her back and murmuring words that rang out softly like apologies. Crowds of children began to stream out of the stands. Cursing since it was obvious that Hermione was in no condition to move, he muttered an Obscurus Charm that would make both he and she invisible to anyone but those specifically looking for the two. Then, the only thing he did was to breath a soft, "Oh, Hermione," and then wait for either her to calm down or Dumbledore to come to his aid.

Dumbledore came first.

The man looked down at Hermione with a mixture of concern and compassion upon his face. "Is she well, Severus?"

He nodded, feeling completely out of his element as the distraught young woman clung harder to him every time he tried to pull away. "In the excitement, I lost. . .control. . .and allowed her mind to slip back into the state the sirens left her with. A waking nightmare, Albus, and nothing more."

"Ah," the headmaster nodded wisely, and then smiled, a twinkle of mischief showing in his eyes. "Well, I believe I shall leave her in your adept care." He turned and began to walk back in the direction of the school.

Snape almost swore again. "Headmaster?" he called sourly. "Headmaster! I fail to see the humor in the situation!"

"Don't stay out too long, Severus!" Dumbledore responded. "Supper will be served and the house elves say they are preparing a most delightful surprise."

***

She was dreaming now, only she knew she was dreaming. Not of the few gifts she had received--even one she was sure was from Snape himself. No, she was walking up a giant grassy hill that towered over the land around her. Green, rich grass carpeted the countryside all around her and gave off the scents of clean, live earth. Of the way the land used to be, in the times before this time, which the occult was worshipped just as everything else was. This was a land of the Green Man, of traditions older than the stone structures they supported. Off to her left, she could see the monolithic pillars of stone set in a broken circle, and she knew she was on Silbury Hill.

The old Gaelic woman was waiting for her on top with the saddest expression on her face Hermione had ever seen. The skies above were on fire with streams of magnetized ions reacting from distant solar flares, and small spheres of energy floating gently through the air. The chalk horse was impaled, and bleeding as the land around it slowly died, victim of another war. It reared and bucked, trying to break free of the hands of death even as its life energy puddled down its hill and rested against the withering grass.

"This is not your native home," Hermione said.

"No," she responded forlornly, "not anymore."

Time continued to move and green things continued to grow. Every now and then, one of the energy spheres would disappear in a loud explosion of rapidly expanding air, flattening everything around it in a circular pattern. The horse broke free and left its place in the Westbury hills, running like a crazed demon of a forgotten earth, like a phantom of what was and could possibly be. The old ways. Finally, the old woman asked, "Are you beginning to understand? We are lonely creatures, who couldn't pass up a chance to alleviate our boredom even when the world is falling apart around us. But that is why... That is why I did what I had to. They put a curse upon you, if you try to escape, but it is the only way... And may the Gods in their mercy learn to forgive us all..."

***********************************************************************************************************************

__

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,  
Like to some branch of stars we see,   
Hung in the golden Galaxy,  
The bridle bells rang merrily  
As he rode down to Camelot:  
And from his blazon'd baldric slung,  
A mighty silver bugle hung,   
As he rode his armour rung,  
Beside remote Shalott

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;  
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;   
From underneath his helmet flow'd  
His coal-black curles as on he rode,  
As he rode down to Camelot:  
From the bank and from the river,  
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,   
"Tirra lirra," by the river  
Sang Sir Lancelot.

*Snorts with laughter* Now, can anybody _really_ imagine Snape singing Shakespeare like that? And yes, if anybody knows the next stanza to the poem (granted I've skipped several) then they know we're finally getting to the good part

Ahem: Time for the lecture!

Twisting the Gryffindor's Tail and Patting the Basilisk's Head are references to the way one of my old history textbooks put the early 1900's relationship between America and Britain. America Twisted the Lion's Tail--the symbol of Britain being the lion--and it is basically an expression saying that America was constantly testing it's limits with Britain and being very rude. Britain, on the other hand, Patted the Eagle's Head--the symbol of America being the Eagle--gracefully ignoring America's rudeness and humoring America.

The green man is a medieval reference to a man made completely out of grass/trees/plants. He was often symbolic of life. I think references to him can be found even earlier, say, to ancient Greece and the persecution of the 'real' witches who worshipped Diana, the mother goddess. 

Now, for all of you who don't know your geography, Stone Henge is near Silbury hill. Technically, it is located on Salisbury Plain two miles away from Amesbury, Wiltshire (Southern England). Silbury Hill is located near Avebury, Wiltshire (also Southern England). Please correct me if I am wrong, but the two are about 25-30 miles from each other (Yes, I actually researched this). Now in my mind, and this is because I'm used to traveling long, long distances in short periods of time, the two are located near each other. Yes, Hermione's dream was a bit misleading. She saw Stone Henge and knew she was on Silbury Hill--which, due to geographical circumstances, would not have happened. In fact, if we were going to _really_ be picky about this, Hermione would have had to look to the Southeast to see Stone Henge (which I don't think can even be seen from Silbury Hill anyway) if she was oriented North. Fortunately, in dreams, anything can happen, and locations are not always accurate--especially when there is _important symbolism (*hint, hint*)_ involved. It is believed Stone Henge was created by druids who worshipped the mother goddess. Silbury Hill is a manmade hill also thought to be symbolic of the mother goddess. Actually, they have a lot of theories on both, but these two work best with my story. The Westbury Chalk Horse is located in Wiltshire county, but it is not the only chalk horse in that part of the world. The oldest is about 3000 years, with many, many younger ones littered all about. Others chalk creatures include a lion, kiwi and a panda, along with giant men and were created by different peoples and for different reasons. 

For example, the panda is believed to be from students at the Bangor University Wales; the act of cutting the chalk horses is called leucippotomy; _the_ Wiltshire white horse, or at least, the oldest one, was created (or renovated, I guess) in the 1770's but the original is believed to have been created in the 870's, but not by Celtics (of course). In fact, and I feel really clever about this, it was supposedly created to commemorate some war victory (ah yes, I love the symbolism of my dream sequence). The kiwi, located in Bulford, was created in 1918. 

Now, you say, what is the difference between the Gaelic people and Celtic people? Zebee says, "Gaelic is a *language family* not a tribe or nation or people. these days there are 2 main branches of the language, Scots/Irish and Welsh/Cornish/Breton. Speakers of one can understand some of the other family if they concentrate hard, speakers within a family manage better although there are different pronunciations and vocab. (I speak some Scots Gaelic, I can read most Irish, but forget the Welsh...) "celtic" describes a set of tribes/nations that were over most of Europe, from Spain to the Rhine more or less, as well as the British Isles. Names, culture, religion, differed as you would expect over that much area, and definitely changed over time. We know very little of the religion, despite all the stuff the modern New Agers will tell you... This confusion is one of my pet peeves, mostly started by the Victorian Romantics and fed by the modern fantasy novel industry and some of the more rabid neopagans."

As for the balls of energy and crop circles? Well, and you may take this however you like, scientists believe most crop circles are created by hoaxers and artists. Some, however, are clearly different than the hoaxed ones, and cause odd magnetic reactions like people claim the Bermuda triangle. Now, and remember that it's been a long time since I heard this theory, there is a thing called plasma--it's basically superheated, molten gasses and is considered to be a fourth state of matter. Solid, liquid, gas, plasma. You find plasma close to the sun, and it is often ejected by solar flares/prominences. Some scientists believe that balls of floating, plasmic like energy can be created (and have been in artificial environments) and float around until they dissipate. Sometimes, the dissipation is quite violent, and if it is outside, flattens the vegetation in the circular pattern that can be seen with some crop circles. Keeping in mind the power of plasma (its effect on the ionosphere of the earth is what causes the Aurora Borealis and Australus) on earth's magnetic field, it creates small pockets of odd magnetic readings. And, if I am not mistaken (if I am, I am really, really sorry), Resmiranda made a reference to these balls of energy in her Shadows trilogy. Remember when Snape was working with Arithmancy and collecting all that energy into a ball between his hands--and then with a loud noise, it dissipated? Ah ha! You learn something new every day, don't you?

On to your kind, kind comments!

Tegan: Thanks! Can she talk to animals, or can't she? Clearly, she _is_ talking to animals--and most people consider her crazy for it. Now, whether or not they are really talking back to her is a chalk horse of another color... Ah, yes, the polar bear. Hmmm, I don't think Professor McGonagall will allow her to try something like that for a long, long while. :) The mouse enjoyed it, however. As for my author's notes... well... I can't be angsty all the time, now can I? Snape doesn't call it humor, though. He calls it a clear lack of intelligence and coherent thought and claims that I am depriving some poor village of its idiot somewhere.

Tracy: Here

Is

Chapter

Five.

Thanks for your wonderful commentary!

Lady Granger: Yeay! I'm officially a great writer! *Sniff* this is the happiest day of my life! You'll have to wait for chapter six, though, so I can work on your Icy Challenge. Heh... Nothing like skinny dipping in the Antarctic, now is there? And yes, we all have those lazy days. Me, it's every day.

hdm: here you go, an update.

Professor Dragonfly: Don't feel so bad--Hermione, I'm sure, is looking at it as a learning experience! And Snape--well, I'd best not say it. He's glaring at me with something that looks suspiciously like my effigy and his wand poised in a most threatening manner...

Tacy Stillman: Thanks! But don't we all go through the insanity? ;) *ouch! Stop stabbing me with your wand!*

Ankle: Thanks some more! It's fun to have a crazy Hermione every once in a while. Besides, Snape explicitly told me that he needed his sanity so that he could finish his latest romance novel.

RowanRhys: I really love the Lady of Shalott because it's so... ironic. (Ah yes, it's also why I love Le Fantome de L'Opera and Les Miserables--although the 100 page sewer scene did begin to drag). Poor Elaine... I mean, she loved him so much, and he refused to return her love because his own heart was tied to another woman he couldn't have... In a way, Lancelot was her downfall. He brought the curse, but then, he blessed her at the end, finally saw her beauty when it was too late. I know my interpretation with Snape and Hermione digresses a little, but my hope and intent is that I keep the same feeling... It really is such a beautiful legend and I am a sucker for myths and legends. And Harry and Ron had it coming to them! (They bug me sometimes.)

Everybody loves a polar bear!


	6. The Mirror Cracked

****

The Lady of Shalott

by Ibex's Lyre

Chapter Six: The Mirror Cracked

__

She left the web, she left the loom,  
She made three paces thro' the room,   
She saw the water-lily bloom,  
She saw the helmet and the plume,  
She look'd down to Camelot.  
Out flew the web and floated wide;  
The mirror crack'd from side to side;   
"The curse is come upon me," cried  
The Lady of Shalott.

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

She was there, waiting for him when he got back. Sitting in the most comfortable chair before the fire--_his_ most preferred chair, no less, watching him with a hooded gaze and a carefully guarded mind. The stink of October night still permeating his robes, and she was challenging him without saying anything. Daring him to make the first move, say the first word. He was exhausted, she wasn't in possession of all her mental faculties, and both were wary of the other. Both were determined not to make the misstep. Fire crackled and cackled a mocking laugh--oh, the folly of intellect! The folly of the sentient, always afraid to let others see a potential weakness. And oh, how ironic, too! Both bound closer than any vows of love, both entwined deeper in each others emotions and mind than any others ever had, and still... still they refused to bend their pride just a little, allow the other to reach out and feel... empathetic.

Empathy.

Irony.

Deception.

Subterfuge.

Insanity of sanity; order in chaos.

So, when they could have reached out to each other and understood, been at peace with themselves, they chose for closed coldness instead.

"Miss Granger," Snape finally said, eyeing her with as much calculated scorn as he had given any student. His eyes pierced through hers like arrows, trying to wound her enough to make her back down.

Indeed, it did sting, and she winced ever so slightly. Hermione inhaled deeply and continued to pet Crookshanks, who was currently residing on her lap. The open door leading to his room betrayed the clumps of fir that covered Snape's blankets and told of where she had gotten the cat from. She had gone into his private room again--but then, as much as the two tried to deny it, nothing was exactly private between them, anymore. "Professor Snape," she returned, just as coldly. But her lower lip was trembling ever so slightly, and he saw the way her eyes glimmered with tears threatening to take control of her facade. And then, he understood what she was trying to hide, her reasons for staying up well past when she normally did. She was _worried_ about him.

The absurdity of anyone being worried about _him_ of all people caught him momentarily off guard. Surprised, and very few things surprised this man of icy emotions and contempt, his eyes widened. But only for an instant before his customary glare engraved itself upon his face. _Of course she was worried about me--without me, she has no hope of ever thinking rationally again, _he told himself firmly. Still, the image of her kneeling down on the ground, her body pressed up against his and his arms around her, the feeling of someone so utterly dependant upon him, so needy, and so willing trust that he would take care of her was burned into his mind. Images that he did not want, no matter what Dumbledore hinted! This was Hermione Granger! Gryffindor's number one irritating, obnoxious know-it-all! The insane student to whom he was irreparably bonded to! For the Gods' sakes, he was supposed to be taking care of her, not fantasizing about how attractive she had become!

As it was, Hermione was trying to force his mental tendrils out of her mind and still keep herself sane. Their minds were too entangled for her to shove him out completely, filling her with an onslaught of confusing emotions that she simply did not want to deal with--her perception of reality suffering despite her best efforts. And all she wanted to do was scream, to be far away from this.

Tired of the stalemate and tired of existence, Snape opted to ignore Hermione and simply lock himself in his room and take a freezing shower--before her mind could overcome his own and lock him in her nightly illusions--or his own body became visibly treacherous. However, before he could close the door, she got out of the chair and slipped herself in front of the door. When he tried to go around, she blocked his efforts. Clearly, he would have to deal with her before she would allow him into his room. "Miss Granger," he said finally, mustering up as much contempt as he could, "kindly remove yourself from my door."

"You were gone, with _him_," she hissed. When he opened his mouth to respond, she countered him immediately. "Oh, don't try to deny it. I felt everything!"

"Apparently not, Miss Granger," he hissed at her and took a predatory step towards her comparatively slight body in an attempt to scare her off. "You have no idea."

"Spying," she continued, "pretending to cower at the hem of his robe, licking his boots even as he kicks you! Voldemort's little minion, brave little pseudo-Death Eater! You refused to tell me and instead left me to wonder where you were and why, _why_ my mind was crumbling apart because of somebody else's emotions, and where that pain, more intense than a thousand burning knives, poured into my very soul!"

His eyes flew wide and he drew himself to his full length, as if height could heal the wounds she had just inflicted on his dignity. "I did nothing of the sort you foolish woman!" came the low growl. "If. I. Ever. Tried. To go back to the Dark Lord, he would kill me instantly. No questions, not even a few taunts. Dead. Do you understand? I am a wanted man."

"But you do not deny that you--"

"There are more ways to spying than pretending you are a minion, Granger. And if you ever tell a single soul..." he allowed the threat to taper off as soon as he felt her give up. Defeated, she stood aside and let him brusquely brush past her. How much had been reality and how much of the pain had she imagined? Hermione was only vaguely aware of the door that slammed shut behind her, even as she leaned against it for its strong support. For a long time, all she did was stare at the fire and allow her thoughts to run whatever course they may. As if to deliver one last insult, Snape made no attempts to control her mind. He was right, she knew. There _were_ other ways to spy. Invisibility was always a boon, but still, Voldemort had known that somebody had been there. He had smelt the hatred, sensed the intent to cause only harm--much more than the petty malice his other Death Eaters held. No, true, intense loathing, desire to kill, to destroy and cool calculation that rivaled even Voldemort's own. Ah, but Lucius... Lucius was the sly one--the one you really had to watch out for.

The young woman with no name looked down at the satiny blue dress she wore and turned around. There, beyond the portal she saw _him_... lying on a bed of earth blanketed with green, soft grass. Slender, silvery birches grew up around creating four post-like corners and covering everything with a canopy of leaves. Irresistible... Raven haired man in the moonlight, eyes closed and peacefully oblivious of everything around him. She knew him even through the October scent that clung onto his skin and tried to cloak his own scent. With the greatest of care lest he be awoken from that peace, she stepped beyond the portal and glided towards him. Pale skin, thin lips, brows ever so slightly furrowed as if in deep contemplation, he lay still. A gentle move, and then she was straddling his chest, and peering down into his face as if... as if to prove to herself that he was, indeed, real and not just some figment of her imagination. He did not disappear like she feared he would. Instead, he inhaled deeply and sighed, shifting slightly underneath her. So, she curled her hands through his dark hair, bent down, and kissed him softly on the lips.

He, who had been the first to treat her like she was human.

And he responded quite willingly.

As her hair brushed across his face and mixed with his, she gave him a deep, yet soft kiss, sighing quietly as his body reacted to hers. She went to pull her mouth away, but a large hand slid up her back and pressed her head back down against his, hungrily searching for her mouth. Happily, she complied and allowed the rest of her body to slide down his, so that she was laying completely on top of him. This was... perfect... Heaven. Bliss... She didn't care that the world around her felt too surreal, nothing in the world could make her want to move--not even the girl on the other side of the mirror.

He had his face buried against her neck now, and his hands tracing their way up and down her sides. He kissed his way down her neck and then across her collar bone, holding his lips against her pulse and leaving feathery nips where the her skin was most sensitive. Breath quick and shallow, she nuzzled against him and they settled into a simple embrace. Yes, this was indeed so nice...

After Snape had gone through his ritual the following morning, and opened the door, it was to find Hermione sleeping with her head against the doorframe. There was a slight smile across her face, which he glared at sourly for several minutes before he decided to pick her up and drop her unceremoniously into the shower--clothes and all. Worry about him, would she? He would show the impertinent little madwoman that Severus Snape could take care of himself--and her. Hermione woke up with a start as soon as the freezing cold water began to splash all over her, and glared up at him. Oh, but her foul mood was worth the look on her face! In fact, after such a... pleasant... dream, Snape even allowed himself the luxury of smirking down at her. 

He did not notice the blue satin shawl tangled up in his sheets.

***

Hermione was watching him closely as they walked through the dungeons in the direction of breakfast and the Great Hall. Snape ignored her as best as he could--it was far too early for questions--yet she persisted. She was excited about something, he could sense, and determined to wait him out. _Well, she'll be waiting for a long time_, he groused mentally, only slightly surprised when a faint smile crossed her lips. Really, he was going to have to do something about that damnable bond before the two became one entity!

"Professor?" she asked finally, much too excited to contain it within herself. 

"Granger, I believe we had a mutual agreement where you voluntarily hold your tongue--and your mind--at least until I have had the chance to get some caffeine into my system? And since injections leave ever so nasty scars," he sneered here, and she could feel his anger invade her mind, "you will have to wait until long after breakfast."

Undaunted and undeterred, Hermione allowed the silence to grow between them. Oh yes, it was a Tuesday, after all, and there would be plenty of time to discuss a _real_ Seventh Year project at five, tomorrow.

***

Herbology was after Potions and right before Hermione had Runes. Professor Sprout had reminded them last Thursday to wear their warmest clothes, as the class would be held outside in the October cold rain and early sleet, but she had seemed very excited about something. So in the ten minutes before her class started, the students all ran up to their dorms and got on their heavy winter robes, and then ran back outside to meet in front of the greenhouses. By the time everyone had run both ways, one way through a heated castle in very hot robes, they were all on the verge of heat stroke. Which was not funny since their ears felt ready to fall off from magical cold.

Professor Sprout smiled cheerfully at them and waited for the last stray Hufflepuff to join the crowd. Having Herbology after Potions was something Neville always looked forward to--he was very good at Herbology. "Today," she began with a voice too upbeat for the weather, "we are going to learn how to sing to the trees. Trees really do enjoy a good song every now and then, and it is the best way to make a tree really grow, other than growth charms of course."

She ignored the wave of groans spreading down the ranks and led them out behind the greenhouse. The mere idea of opening oneself up to sure embarrassment by singing in front of an entire class was not a very pleasant one. In fact, the only thing that brought any dim joy into their lives was the fact that they didn't have to do it in front of Slytherin. Cackling gleefully, (which was an odd sight since the witch was wearing pink ear-muffs and had sort of a motherly air to her) Professor Sprout looked like she was enjoying everything. "Ah, yes, never paused to wonder how the Christmas trees got so big for the holidays, did you? Well now it's your turn! And you have from now until the beginning of the holiday break to finish this project. Yes, Mister Finch-Fletcher, it will take that long. After all, you have to find out what your tree likes to listen to, and give it rests… Growing is hard work! Now hop to!"

Hermione was almost sure that her tree was a Norwegian spruce, but she didn't want to say anything lest she (and the thought was absurd) offend her little seedling. Somewhere in the farthest depths of her mind, she was sure Snape was laughing hysterically at her predicament--or at least, snorting with scornful mirth, anyway, since she didn't think him capable of laughter. Still, an assignment was an assignment, and Hermione was never one to back down... Even when it promised to be one of the least enjoyable assignments of her entire Hogwarts career... Honestly, she had never thought herself a very good singer. She didn't even know where to begin! 

Ron had decided to try the shotgun approach and was in the middle of singing (rather loudly and rather obnoxiously) "You'll take the high road… And I'll take the low road… And I'll get to Scotland befooooore yeeee!"

"Ron!" shouted Harry when he couldn't take the pain any more.

"Yes, Harry?" The tree was shaking, and Ron was taking it as a good sign. Hermione was sure that it was terrified.

"Are you sure that's even the correct lyrics?"

"Who cares? I'm getting results!" 

"Yeah, but you're killing the rest of us."

Next to her, Neville had gone into some little ditty about a Muggle who thought he was a witch and so became a cross-dresser. It was rather funny, actually, and Hermione could have sworn that his tree had been smaller when he had started. No inspiration came to her.

Seamus was singing something about mash, corn, barley and running from the excise man. It figured he would sing about something related to alcohol, but his tree looked mad. Very mad. In fact, the little seedling got so mad that its sap boiled and the tree exploded, spraying bits of needles and sticky tree gore over a group of Hufflepuffs. Professor Sprout looked up and tsked at him. "Now look what you have done Mister Finnigan! None of the other trees want to be near you--you've got them quite terrified. Partner up with somebody else and don't sing again."

She resumed her odd conversation with the little tree she was at. "Come on and stop being a baby! You need to grow tall so that come snowfall your branches will be thick and make a nice refuge for the forest creatures. I know you like being little, but you have to grow up some time! No, I don't care what you think about me--that was not nice!"

Hermione frowned. "Professor Sprout?"

"Yes dear?" She was scowling, but realized who she was scowling at and masked her face into a smile. "I'm sorry--he's just being a little frustrating."

"Oh... What kind of a tree is that?"

As if the tree had just made a very mean remark, Professor Sprout glared at it and tapped it with her wand. "Oh, he's just a very rude hemlock from Canada. I knew I should have gotten one from Japan! They're much more polite and make so much better ornamental trees. I think this one was germinated too close to New York--he's picked up some very bad manners." She turned her attention back to the hemlock, and put a very motherly glare at the seedling. "Now you little piece of kindling, if you do not behave and start growing, I will transfigure you into a weed and then you'll never get to live in the Forbidden Forest!"

Apparently this threat worked, for the tree began to grow at the start of Professor Sprout's next song. 

Hermione eyed her little sapling doubtfully. Well, so much for thinking that schoolwork would help her keep a hold on reality... Singing to trees. Ha! The next thing she knew, she'd be mumming!

***

By the time Transfigurations came about the next day, Hermione could barely control her excitement. This worried Professor McGonagall--she most certainly did not want another polar bear in the class. And despite the sarcastic assurances Snape gave her, she did not trust Hermione with a wand anymore. But the headmaster had insisted, and who was she to deny the headmaster's wishes? Instead, McGonagall found herself constantly watching Hermione to make sure she transfigured the animals into what they were supposed to be, not what she thought they wanted to be. So, it was with a thin, disapproving mouth she watched Hermione as the number one student in all of Hogwarts completed a very complicated transfiguration--a frog into a salamander. The less related the creature was, for some reason, the harder it was to transfigure it. While it was relatively very simple to transfigure a Great Dane into a Gray Hound, it was harder to transfigure it into a wolf, or a bear, or a hawk, and extremely difficult to transfigure it into something not mammalian. It still amazed her that Hermione had managed to do something as complicated as a mouse into a polar bear on her first attempt--but that did not mean one did not treat a snow leopard any less carefully even if it was rare.

The last thing to grow was the tail, and it was a great relief to both Hermione and McGonagall when a fully functioning salamander turned the desk on fire. Hermione carefully dumped the thing into a glass of water (and dousing her desk to stop the flames). Up shot her hand as she raised it. "Professor McGonagall," she called, "I've finished. May I be excused since the class is almost over anyway? I could get started on my project..."

"Of course, Miss Granger," the Professor responded, quite relieved in a guilty sort of way to be free of the duty of watching Hermione. Let Severus have her--so long as he did nothing to harm her Gryffindor chic--Hermione was a handful, and McGonagall, who had always thought herself a logical, rational person, could no longer understand her prize student. And if the girl--young woman, she corrected herself--was going to do something productive... Well... an idle mind was the devil's workshop, especially when the owner of that mind thought she could talk to mice.

Excused, Hermione ran as fast as she could to the dungeons and Snape's classroom. When she got there, it was just in time to hear him yell at some poor third year Hufflepuff for... being too jubilant around his cauldron? Briefly, she wondered why in the world _anyone_ would be jubilant in his classroom (unless it was a Slytherin), and a smile crossed her lips. Oh, she could feel the anger billowing forth from his mind. In fact, she wondered briefly just why he was so upset, and then, as she couldn't really find any apparent reason floating free in his mind, chalked it up to the stresses of being a teacher. Really, he wouldn't have such horrible days if he'd talk to somebody--

"And I assume you are the one I should talk to, _Miss Granger?_ And fifteen points for gawking!" came the acid call from inside the classroom.

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin in surprise. Sometimes she simply forgot that the bond worked both ways. She peered into the classroom to see him scowling back at her. "I was dismissed early from Transfigurations and--"  
"I know. Now sit down and kindly keep your mouth shut and refrain from raising your hand. Professor McGonagall may not have anything to teach her class, but _I_ do."

__

And I suppose you know why I'm here?

Do I want to know, you insufferable, loathsome brat? And then quiet but intense undercurrent of frustrated thought: _Why did I have to be stuck with her...?_

Just because you're_ upset doesn't mean you have to take it out on the rest of us._

The two glared at each other, and now Hermione felt just as miserable as Snape. For many minutes, the only sound was of terrified, harassed Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students trying desperately not to make a noise. Finally, Snape directed his freezing gaze at the class. "Go. All of you. Now!" he snapped. The classroom was cleared of students in less time than it took to throw a hex. 

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember just why he had become a teacher, and ruing the day he made that fateful decision. In the soft light that seeped from windows (impossible in the dungeons, and yet they existed, thanks to magic) high above, he looked almost... forgivable. For the awful mood he had put her in. But that didn't make her mood any better _now,_ did it?

"Now," he began softly, "What possessed you to barge into my class? And yes," he began, before she could respond with something equally as nasty, "I know you wanted to talk about your damnable project."

"I," she retorted, "did not barge into your class! You were the one who called me in! I was quite content to wait outside--"  
"You might as well have! I could hear--_feel_ you right outside my door!" Then, more to himself, "We've got to do something about this before--before we start knowing and feeling things about each other we'd rather not."

"I highly agree, Professor," Hermione returned, very angry now. "What do you suggest?"

"I don't know..." he finally admitted, his face in his hands as he massaged his forehead. 

"You don't know?" Her face flushed with emotion, she glared straight at him and forgot every thought of sympathy she had had. "You don't know! You put us in this situation in the first place, and You. Don't. Know!"

"What, would you rather be stuck in a coma, dreaming dreams about dancing?" he snarled and stood up. "Ah, yes," and his cruel smile made her cringe to the very depths of her mind, "Hermione Granger--but you had no name, did you? The nameless dancer! Pet prize of Lucius, singing garish songs and being felt up by men who didn't even exist!--or was that a subconscious desire of yours?" He took a step towards her, and made her take her own step backwards. 

"No," she whispered. _I don't want to talk about this!_

"Ah, but we are going to, Granger, and right now!" 

Afraid, Hermione bolted for the door but found it warded. She looked up at him, eyes opened wide and unasked question still forming in her mind--was she dreaming this or-- "No!"

"Yes! All those sweet dreams of yours, hiding behind a wall of stone--who knew that goody-know-it-all-Granger felt that way? Hiding forever, so much for Gryffindor bravery!"

"It's not what's behind the wall!" she screamed, trying to block everything out, trying to be far away--_No!_

"Then what is?" he snarled savagely, standing directly over her. "Pray tell, what is?"

In her mind, there was a wall. There had always been a wall, since time before time. Ages before ages, eons before eons, before the beginning of the world, she had had a wall. Only she hadn't. Upon that wall, were glyphs. Strange glyphs, odd glyphs, remnants of writing before writing had even been invented--only they didn't matter. Within those glyphs lay a curse. Old curse, odd curse, beyond the mirror behind the broken glass. Fragments of woof and weave upon the twisted loom drifted past in the wind as fissures in stone became cracks and transformed into huge, gaping holes. The mirror shattered in great, brilliant, razor sharp shards that ripped and tore, sliced and cut every salvageable part of Hermione's mind apart, even as the girl on the other side laughed the sound of tinkling glass falling upon a cold, hard floor. The loom was reduced to splinters as the wall collapsed and allowed the mystery inside to escape.

Hermione's last words were, "Ah, Gods! There really was a curse!" before she collapsed. And caught in Hermione's same maelstrom, minds connected as they were, Snape fell victim to her sweet oblivion.

Sometimes, when you care about a person, you do seemingly horrible things to save them--even if they'll never understand.

**********************************************************************

Umm... this chapter really took its own course there, especially towards the end... Rest assured, I know where it will end up, but getting to that point will be a little different than I first believed. I have a fun surprise, but that'll have to wait. In fact, speaking of that surprise, I even know the title of the sequel to this... (after long deliberation, I have decided to indeed do a new story where the last verse of Tennyson's poem leaves off...) I'd tell you the title, but that may give away too much at this stage in the game--especially if any of you picked up that little hint I dropped in the scene with McGonagall... Very obscure hint, granted, but it will be very obvious--especially if you knew the title... 

Okay, mumming is defined as:

****

1.To act or play in a pantomime.

****

2.To go merrymaking in a mask or disguise especially during a festival.

Especially associated with fertility and spring... Really, it holds no true significance other than the fact I thought it was a cool word.

Bugeater93: Thanks! Wow, that *is* simple! I'll have to remember that.

Tracy: I don't mind so much... We all saw what a fiasco I got into when I stayed up too late... :) And you pose a good question to which I'll only say that whether or not she _really_ can is very important. And those sirens are tricky creatures, aren't they?

Fianne: Okay, one update! (Hope you're not annoyed with me)

Hermione Black: Is 5,600 words enough for you?  
Zebee: I don't mind nitpicking if it is constructive and helps me rectify errors. I believe I asked for it, after all... ^ _ ^

Aurinia: Clever, clever! I love that hypothesis! And we will most definitely be finding out just how Harry and Ron and Hermione were lured by the Siren... Or Sirens... beginning with the next chapter. And, just exactly what that question she asked was... But slowly... I would hate to show all my cards too soon in the game...

Tegan: I like warm and fuzzy... Hot and sexy, too, but it's still too early in the relationship for that. Good things take a while to develop, if anybody was wondering. ;) I'm glad you enjoyed that moment *and* Snape's discomfort--that scene was a relief to write, I'll tell you. I tried to keep him as much in character as I could while keeping the relationship from becoming stalemated.


	7. In the Stormy East-Wind

****

The Lady of Shalott

by Ibex's Lyre

Time for answers to be revealed, pieces to begin to fall into place. For symbolism to become clear, and, perhaps, an end.

****

Warning:This chapter contains material of a NC-17 nature, including seduction and a semi-orgy. I can assure you that it is completely for the plot. I do not write things that are useless or are simply _there _just to be there. In fact, I give this the rating of PYtiP, or Plot? Yes there is Plot! Or PYP, for short. On a more serious note, if you don't really appreciate things of this nature, you can skim past and still get the gist, I think, of what I was trying to say. Keeping that in mind, I hope I wasn't too... biological about it. Anyway, the really steamy scenes, for those wishing to skip them, are at the very end of the chapter. I can assure you you'll know when you get there. ;)

Here's something I thought interesting--Tennyson considers the stream masculine, whereas the ocean is usually female, as is a ship. I wonder what a lake is, then...

****

Chapter Seven: In the Stormy East-Wind

__

In the stormy east-wind straining,  
The pale yellow woods were waning,   
The broad stream in his banks complaining,  
Heavily the low sky raining  
Over tower'd Camelot;  
Down she came and found a boat,  
Beneath a willow left afloat,   
And round about the prow she wrote  
The Lady of Shalott.

__

And down the river's dim expanse  
Like some bold seër in a trance,   
Seeing all his own mischance--  
With a glassy countenance  
Did she look to Camelot.  
And at the closing of the day  
She loosed the chain and down she lay;   
The broad stream bore her far away,  
The Lady of Shalott.

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

Once there was a boy who lived. Because he had lived, despite the very whims of one of the greatest wizards of the twentieth century, he had become famous, and fame brings even more great enemies. Now this boy had friends, two of them, in fact, who cared very much about him. One friend was a red-haired boy of an old wizarding family, but rather impoverished due to circumstances and life. The other was a girl aptly named Hermione, a clever young witch, whose love of knowledge and desire to learn had become her bane, the poor creature. But she had known the consequences before she had asked; knew what was at stake should she refuse to do so. So she had stood upon the razor sharp double-edged sword of choice; had seen the two futures before her, and watched as the possibilities flitted before her eyes. 

It's strange how sometimes a good night's sleep helps to put things in perspective. Or, alternately, how it can make things seem so much worse than they did the night before. She had had her dream even before the sirens had begun to sing softly, croon slowly. In fact, the night of the dream that had come to her in her sixth year had been the night the moon had been eclipsed by its own shadow, and had shattered, fallen from the sky for a short while, leaving everything around her a ruin of time, like in the dream. And in that dream, there had been darkness so thick that she had been drowning in it, and all around her had been the ruins of a city that had once stood so tall and so proud… That had been destroyed eight other times and rebuilt eight other times. Troy. 

__

Yes, Hermione, daughter of Helen of Troy and Menelaus, this was your city… Once…

Before her eyes, time began to bury the city and her along with it. She tried to scream, but no sound came out of her voice other than a terrified whisper. This was not the way things were supposed to be!

__

But you are not that Hermione. You are another, a Hermione Granger, daughter of dentists. This is your city.

Suddenly she was on top of the tallest tower of Hogwarts, looking down at everything around her, and what she saw was truly terrifying. The lake was boiling and streams of fire arched out at random intervals. Rotting remains of the giant squid littered the shore by the roses where once the unicorns had dared to eat. The Forbidden Forest was stripped bare of leaves and the earth was a charred black. The buildings she had once admired for their grace and beauty, for their charm and enchantments were hollow falling-in husks of death and decay--only her one tower stood like the beacon of despair; the one last sentinel admiring its fallen kingdom. Once proud, having survived a thousand years of persecution and politics, Hogwarts was a smoldering ruin.

__

This is what your seer sees; death and destruction of everything held dear. This is not the only way; this does not have to happen.

Now Hermione was under the lake, struggling to swim even as she sank, arm raised in an attempt to reach for the skies that she knew were above her. A hand caught hers, and pulled her through the ice that had not been there before. It was not Harry, not even Ron or Hagrid--not even Snape, who had saved Harry once... It was a pair of cat eyes and a human face, graceful hands and great spotted wings. A long tail and birdlike feet, did this creature have. Silver filigree across her brow formed a thin crown with a blood-red gemstone in the center. Hermione did not know what this creature was, but she knew she was connected somehow to it.

Brown eyes turned to look at a figure standing on the ice in front of her, facing away towards the Forbidden Forest. Unruly black hair stirred in the wind and tugged on the strings of memory.

Harry?

__

No. The Boy Who Lived is only one piece in this war. He alone does not have the key, only a part. You have a larger part of the key; you found it when you died in the darkness and was brought back to life by this one who now stands on the ice. When you were bonded by something greater than either of you. But this has not happened yet--it will happen soon, if you choose correctly.

Snape! She saw it now--the realization brought a clarity in the figure that had not been there before. Professor Snape was the one standing on the ice, and in his hands he held another part of the key.

__

If he dies, so will your city. But remember, the death of the city does not necessarily mean the death of your world. There are too many other parts and so many choices before them, that anything could happen. And cities can be built again... If he lives, so will your city. But remember, the life of your city does not necessarily mean the life of your world. So many things can happen that have not yet been factored in, so many things can change depending on how those who hold the keys react and act.

Hermione was trembling. How could so much fate weigh upon the shoulders of one man? Then again--everybody always assumed that the defeat of Voldemort hinged entirely upon Harry and his survival. Ironic--if this creature was telling her the truth, then Harry was not the ultimate weapon everyone dreamed him to be. And then Hermione had to wonder--what would have happened if she died?

__

Your city will have died, too, for if you die, nobody will be there to save him. You own him a great debt. You must watch over him even as he watches you, or will; that is the only way you can save your city. Remember, Hermione of Hogwarts, when the east wind that brings the great snowfalls and freezes the great Northern winds that bring the ice begins to blow, you will be called to repay your debt and make things equal.

***

In the darkness of her own mind, Hermione sat next to the deep blue river that had existed there once before. Severus, as he thought of himself in his mind, angrily pushed the piece of the destroyed fabric of Hermione's thoughts aside impatiently. This wasn't his mind. This was Hermione's and the wall had broken... There were answers to be found here, if he could just make her remember. "Come on, Miss Granger," he snapped as he tried to make her stand up. She resisted passively by doing nothing to either hinder or help him. Cross-legged, white dress spread over her, she continued to stare with a glassy, unfocused gaze across the river into the nothingness. 

There was a soft rustling, like feathers against feathers coming from behind. Severus spun around, more than ready to battle the demons of either's mind. Yet, it wasn't a demon, or even some mad thought manifesting itself into an image. No, the creature with cyan eyes before him was something far worse. The face, he knew. He had seen it before in the mind dream Hermione had just had, and in the one he had pulled her from, when she had been in a coma. The Gaelic woman, Hermione had called her. "Harpy!" he spat vitriolically, showing his contempt and disgust for the one creature he could put all blame on.

"You know better than that," she whispered softly, her voice melodious and so very different from the one she had been assuming. "Naiad."

"Siren," and his voice was low and dangerous. "If even one note should fall from your lips, I will make you curse your birth for the rest of eternity!"

Raidne laughed softly. "You are neither Odysseus nor Demeter. In any case, I did not come here to spar with you. I came to..."and she cast her eyes from him towards Hermione, "help."

"You," he growled, ignoring her last statement, "have already done quite enough to that witch!"

"Have I?" Raidne queried, her wings rustling together softly before they resettled against her back. "I am not like the others, not like Thelxiope and Teles. I can see..." she smiled sadly, "I could read the writing on the wall." Slowly, with the grace of a creature that has been around for a long, long time, she folded her arms across her chest and waited. For what, Snape was not exactly sure, but he refused to ask--to do so would have constituted as being one of the worst follies of his life. Although, perhaps insanity wouldn't be so bad, after all--Hermione had enjoyed it well enough. After a few moments that had stretched on to seem like hours, her smile became more amused than anything. "Well?" she asked in her clear voice. "Do you not want to know what it was, exactly, that Hermione asked us?"

He looked at her shrewdly, carefully choosing his next words. "Only if you explain to me why you are doing this."

"Oh," she laughed, "that could be construed to be a question, but you are clever. Clever as Hermione was. I will allow you that question, then. You see, ever since Persephone... was lost to us, we sat on our rock, victims as much as Persephone had been. It was lonely... Orpheus played for us, once, but then he, too, went his own way. This was when we were younger; we had our youthful follies as well. We thought we could sing better than the muses, and lost. They plucked us of our feathers, and trapped us on that rock for centuries... Oh, how I wished I could escape and find Asclepius to rejuvenate my body and restore the feathers, but the centuries wore on, with only foolish men to entertain ourselves with. 

"We were not left forever, though. A man came, in the guise of a snake swimming across the water's surface, and restored us. At first I thought he was Asclepius, but he called himself another name. Salizar. He gave me my feathers back and Thelxiope and Teles the ability to assume the form of a mermaid. His price, of course, was to be able to ask a question without fear of insanity, and we granted him that question. His was simple and foolish; wasted. He wanted to know the future--they all do. So we told him what we saw, but did not tell him that anything as far into the future as he was looking was uncertain at best. Then he left, and so did we.

"He had an heir, a foolish mortal named Tom. You have no idea what it is like to be a siren... hated, feared, music so pure and potent it draws you fragile creatures to us, and answers that drive you insane. We are very lonely, you see. And look at me! What man, human or otherwise, would ever learn to love such a creature as I? Harpy, you called me. I might as well be. The offer he gave us _was_ ambrosia. He wanted us, needed us, and we needed our games. He wanted us to draw Potter to him, and we did. Thelxiope and Teles hid in the water with the other mermaids and sang the boy farther and farther away from your precious school. Ah, yes... But, you see, I remember what happened to Persephone, and the folly of challenging somebody as strong as he; I do not wish to lose my feathers again. He could become like Demeter, or Zeus. They weren't gods," Raidne said, contempt clear in her voice. "They were wizards and witches. Very powerful ones, but humans none the less. So, you see, I will help you, because I want my games, too. I am manipulating Tom as he dared to manipulate me, to prey on my loneliness. And Hermione... was perfect. I sent her that dream because I knew that if I could pique her interest, she would come and ask a question. Questions, actually. And she did."

Raidne's smile became very mischievous as she watched the Snape's deadly glance. He wanted to say something--anything, but he did not speak for fear he might ask a question. "Watch your eyes or someone might confuse you for a gorgon. I shall tell you what she asked. Her question, when she came, was this:"

She motioned at Hermione, and the witch, without ever changing her expression, without even any spark of existence, replied: "What must I do?"

"That," Snape sneered, "Is only one question." 

"Ah, yes, clever, isn't it? And that is the beauty of her question--it was worthy of Socrates. It is one question, and yet, so very many! She must have some sphinx in her--I have never seen any but a sphinx so shrewd as she concerning a question. Even Teles was impressed, and she is the hardest one of all, when it comes to humans. What must she do to save her city? What must she do to kill Tom? What must she do to win your lov--or, perhaps, shall we ignore that one, since you are currently in denial. Oh, she knew the price, but it was what she had to do. What else _could_ she do, when so much rested on _her_ shoulders? So the question is, now, what will you do when you wake up and I am gone?"

And then, he was forced out of Hermione's mind and into the moonlight that seeped through the dungeons.

***

There were voices in the room. Distant voices full of shock and was that... concern? _Foolish notion, Severus. Nobody is concerned about you._ But Hermione had been. Of this, he was sure, and it disconcerted him even more than the thought that nobody else did. A soft groan escaped his lips as he realized that he was once again sprawled over her in a dark tangle of robes and limbs. Why did everything that involved lack of consciousness somehow also involve him draped over her like a lover? Or rapist, as it must seem to whoever was in the room. Great. One more thing to add to his already tainted reputation. He was now Greasy-Professor-Slimy-Git-Severus-the-Bastard-Snape-Rapist-Ex-Death-Eater. 

With a great effort, he began to use his desk to pull himself up. Somebody, damn them for stealing his dignity, was trying to help. "Kindly release me," he hissed, vastly preferring to lean against his desk than against anyone else. The person turned out to be Hagrid, but now he could see Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey rushing over to check on Hermione. "I did not do anything to her," came Snape's caustic remark when Madam Pomfrey proceeded to glare up at him. 

"I can tell that, Severus," she snapped. "Poor thing is suffering from--"

"A curse," finished Snape. 

"--bearing your heavy weight," she continued, nonchalantly.

"I shall remember that next time I have any desire to go on a diet," he responded, coldly. Why couldn't he feel her in his mind? It was like she was no longer there! For the first time ever, and Snape refused to admit this, he felt completely and utterly alone.

"Oh, no no no!" Madam Pomfrey tsked, having finished her examination of Hermione and was motioning for Hagrid and Dumbledore to help her pick Hermione up and place her on one of the long student desks. "If anything, you need to eat more! Merlin knows you're too thin as it is! But even six feet of just bones weighs a lot for such a small creature as Miss Granger." She eyed him shrewdly, waiting for him to tell her exactly what happened. 

__

Well, Snape mused, examining her first, then Dumbledore, who looked like _he_ already knew the answers to everything, _it'll be a long wait before I explain myself to her. _And then, everything suddenly made perfect sense. Her dreams, waking and sleeping, the voices of animals, her twisted leaps of logic, her refusal to try to crack the wall and what the siren Raidne had told him all made incredibly clear, horrible sense! "Oh bloody hell," he whispered. "It's worse than I thought."

Without explaining himself, he swept past Hagrid, and towards his workroom. After a few minutes, he swept back into the classroom with the small bottle that contained the concoction Hermione had created, once, and a special cloak used for occasions such as what was presented to him now. "Don't let her go anywhere," he snarled, and stalked off. "And if I don't return, assume I'm dead."

"My dear Severus," came Dumbledore's reply, even though the man knew quite well what was going on, "wherever are you going?"

"You know the answer, Headmaster," Snape sneered. "I am going to hell."

***

"Surely you cannot be serious, Albus," came McGonagall's thin voice and Scottish accent. "What if he _doesn't_ come back! What will Miss Granger do?"

"Actually, Minerva," his voice was heard coming softer and softer, as if he was walking away, "I am hoping she will be the one to take care of him..."

The sound of a door closing in the far off distance caused two brown eyes to open. They did not register anything, exactly, but seemed to stare through everything. Slowly, Hermione sat up and looked to the windows. She was in the infirmary, and it was night. But these facts did not register in her mind. She simply did not think anything at all. Instead, she stood up like someone in a deep trance, and headed to the window. It was closed, so she unlocked it. A stormy gust of wind threw the door open wide, and from above, she could hear the distant rumblings of thunder. The shores of the lake were being battered by high waves, and the leaves of trees were strewn everywhere upon the high wind.

Slowly, Hermione climbed up into the window and began to scale down the wall, ledge by ledge, gargoyle by gargoyle. Every now and then, great arcs of lightening ripped through the sky and illuminated the way for her. In the howling of wind that pushed and pulled and threatened to make her fall, came the howl of the tormented dead and the songs of sirens. It was All Hollow's Eve, Samhain, Halloween, when the veil that separated the living from the dead was at its thinnest. Still she continued on, her expression never wavering from a look of blank calmness. When her bare feet touched frosted grass that shattered beneath her like shards of glass, she slowly headed inside the main entrance to Hogwarts and made her way down to the dungeons. On her way down, she passed by a very fat and agitated Mrs. Norris looking for Filch. As she drifted deeper and deeper into the dungeons, she heard Filch call, "There you are, my sweet! You're too close to be wandering out late at night... You're going to me a mummy soon, you got to think of the little brats. Let's go put you back on your bed... And when I find the bloke who broke your heart..." The threat tapered off into silence.

Once, she would have been amazed that Filch cared that much about any *living* creature. Now, it meant nothing to her.

She made her way to Snape's workroom, ignoring Crookshanks who sat on an empty workbench. The bottle of what she needed was gone, but she walked past the shelves and into her room and grabbed a book and another empty bottle. From her room, she proceeded into his and pulled the sheets and blankets off the bed, searching for the satiny blue shawl she had never lost but knew was there. The bottle, she opened. The shawl she wrapped around her waist. The book she threw at the shelves filled with Snape's precious ingredients, watching blankly as they all came shattering to the ground. The dragon's blood and liquid Aurora Australis was easy enough to find, but the unicorn's blood was tainted, now, and could not be used. 

Hermione walked from the shattered bottles to the hidden potion Snape had been working on for some time now. Very dangerous, it was, extremely lethal, but not quite what Snape had been hoping for. With the grace of the butterfly struggling to find haven through a dark storm, Hermione poured a carefully measured amount into her bottle of dragon's blood and Aurora Australis, creating, for all intents and purposes, a potion that had a wand core mixed in. Her bottle now glowed brightly in the darkness surrounding her, even as dragon's blood ran down her arms and stained her clothing. Where it touched, the clothing became long and white, like a dress. The concoction pudding on the floor was absorbed and ran up her pant-legs, until Hermione was wearing a completely white dress like something one would wear for death.

She had no wand; it was kept away from her when she didn't explicitly need it, but she did not care. She did not think. She only existed. Hermione had left the web and loom of her mind a ruined hulk abandoned to nothingness, and now she left the room and the castle itself far behind her as she walked out towards the lake and the roses that the unicorns ate from. The winds blew and the rains began to fall, like phoenix tears from the sky, the blood of the thunderbirds. Long, frizzy hair waved in the wind and trapped beads of water that shown like glitter as she walked to the rosebushes. But no unicorns could be seen, and the petals were dead and fallen, frozen, to the ground. So Hermione walked on, deeper and deeper into the Forbidden Forest, in search of something that did not exist.

Past the centaurs, who stamped their hooves and vainly searched for Mars through the rain and the thunder, did she walk. Beyond the wind strained webs of Aragog and his kin. Below the aeries of the sylph and griffin who came from the nearby mountains, above the dens of foxes. On the ground, she could see a trail of small drops of silvery blood leading the way deeper into the forest. Reverently did she bend down and collect a little on the tips of her fingers. It seemed to shiver even despite the lack of light. The moment unicorn's blood touches the lips, the person leads a cursed life, a half life. So the centaurs had said. But what of someone who already lead a cursed half-life? Had nothing to lose? Like Voldemort. Or Hermione. It shone silver off of her lips, even as the rain streaked down her face. A cursed, half-life Hermione did have, and the unicorn's blood was but one more curse added by the sirens who had used her because she had dared to ask a question. 

Far away from Hogwarts, Hermione came to a lost fisher's boat washed ashore by the complaining river. If she got in it, it would take her to where death lie. Across the river Styx, and she was her own boatman. She was Charon. Stronger than she looked, Hermione easily pushed it back into the river and got in. On the prow of the boat, she attached her shawl as her standard and wrote _The Lady of the World. _Lonely, lantern-less on a wide river, she floated down the river, staring always ahead of her, as if she could cut the distance between her and her destination, see to where she was heading. Despite the cold air, she took her robe off and lay it on the bottom of the shallow boat. Slowly, as the midnight was rung forth by bursts of thunder and flashes of lightening, she lay down and let the magic boat take her where it may. The eerily glowing bottle lay nestled between her breasts, attached to her throat by a thin piece of twine. All around her, creatures magic and mundane watched the boat float down the river, and bowed their respects to the girl who dared to question the sirens and lost.

Snape knew he was entering Voldemort's territory when he noticed the number of crows increase. Dark, nasty creatures. Detrivores, carrion eaters. Even cloaked and hidden from sight--magic or otherwise, he still couldn't help but feel as though they were watching him. And they probably were, too. The land around him was as dark and ravenous as the crows. As much as he hated this place of death and decay, he did not dare to apparate any closer to the old Riddle place than he had--Voldemort would have known instantly. As it was, he was walking on a layer of microscopically thin ice already. Voldemort had already begun to suspect he was being spied on by some invisible person, and he was not stupid. Bigoted and self-centered, yes, which often led him to make great errors in judgement, but he was not stupid. Snape had told Hermione the truth--if Voldemort ever saw him again, the Dark Lord would kill him instantly. That is, of course, unless he decided to play some games first before killing his faithless servant.

__

So why am I walking straight into my own doom?

Granger, came the answer. _For a witch who will never be able to thank me._

It felt so strange to have a mind so completely and utterly devoid of another's thought. He would have never believed it, but in the few months of such forced intimacy, he had grown used to having her mind flit through his. He had had the best dreams in almost twenty years because of her. Who would have thought that Hermione Granger, of all people, could make him feel human and whole and above all, _needed?_ For the first time in he didn't know how long, he had actually been able to make himself believe that he was making a difference to someone. That he was important, and not just some reclusive, hideous creature that shunned sunlight and wore black on black.

He could hear the haunting siren song grow louder as he traced his way through the trees that tried to snag his invisible cloak on their branches, and the crows that would occasionally drop twigs at him. His cloak, while not always protecting him from the eyes of magical creatures, among other things, muted magic and had saved him many times before. The songs were enchanting, but they did not affect him as they would have if he had been without his cloak. 

Oh, yes, there was no mistaking that he heard Raidne's voice on the wind. And yes, he _did_ know exactly what it was like to be a lonely, feared, disgusting creature. He was Severus Snape, after all, and he had no pity or empathy for the avian creature. Now he was going to put an end to all of this, or, more probably, die trying.

The plan was so simple it was doomed to failure: creep into Voldemort's lair and poison him. No heroics, no bravery. Simply the coward's way to assassinate a totalitarian villain. But if Hermione had been right, he had to kill Voldemort now, before the man had time to finish amassing his forces and, at the same time, train a carefully monitored second in command for the event of some disastrous downfall. Voldemort, if nothing else, wanted to go out with a bang, and not a whimper. And cause as much mayhem in the process as he possibly could.

If Snape got very lucky, which was impossible, since Lady Luck had always been rather cruel to the Potions Master, the sirens would disappear for another few millennia and finally leave him alone to take care of Hermione for the rest of her life. _He_ knew of no cure for insanity. Oh, yes, she'd have free rein over her live so long as she stayed relatively close to his time zone, but her sanity would probably always be dictated by his force of control and awareness--and no matter the distance, they would always be close together. _So why couldn't he feel her now?_

The feeling that he was making an enormous mistake continued to grow the closer he came to the Riddle house. He could see the gables, could_ feel_ the foreboding sense of evil that permeated the entire area. A stream with black, brackish water meandered its way past the cemetery. And there, sitting on tombstones like two demons from hell, were Thelxiope and Teles. Smiling.

"You might as well show yourself, mortal. We know you're there, anyway," came Teles' clear voice.

"Yes, we promise we won't sing... for now, anyway," returned Thelxiope.

Snape doubted this very much, but he lowered the hood of his cloak anyway. "Show me Raidne!" he growled his command, wand ready to protect himself should they try anything.

"Raidne?" asked Teles playfully. "Surely you want me over Raidne. I can be a gorgeous mermaid. She was always an ugly old hag."

"If I had wanted you, I would have," and his lips curled upwards in a nasty sneer, "_asked_ for you. Now tell me where Raidne is, you impertinent harpy, or I shall use the killing curse on you. And do not get me wrong--I have used it before." 

Thelxiope pouted and Teles looked put out. "There," she pointed vaguely towards a giant crooked black oak. And there Raidne was, indeed, pinioned against the tree by a stringless lyre. From the amount of blood that dripped down the coated trunk of the tree, Snape did not see how she could possibly be alive. A wicked smile formed on Teles' lips as she said in mocking sorrow, "She did not want to play by the rules, so we had to take care of her."

"I see there is no love lost between siblings," he said with a sneer.

"No," she grinned wickedly. "And none between humans, either, but you..."

"Present myself as a new challenge," Snape spat.

"Well, when you put it that way, " Thelxiope responded dreamily, "Yes." She was not quite singing, but her voice had a melodious air to it... and Snape could feel himself being drawn to her. It was like a verbal form of the Imperius Curse. "Come here," came the sultry voice.

He did not want to come, oh Merlin how he did not want to, but his legs betrayed his mind, and before he could stop himself, he was standing in front of Thelxiope, wand back in the pocket of his robes, and protective cloak lying over another tombstone. "There, there," she whispered into his ear as Teles came up behind him and began to run her hands up and down against his back, "Much better. We can do something for you Hermione can't. She belongs to us, you see, and we don't want to share you with her..." she licked his earlobe. "Besides, we're much more... experienced than her. Thousands of years of pleasure..." 

Slowly, Thelxiope began to unbutton his shirt, kissing each new piece of flesh that was revealed as she went. She hummed as she went lower, pausing at the waist of his pants. A wicked smile came across her face as her lips slowly caressed him through the black fabric, but he could not see it, as Teles was delivering soft, feathery kisses to his mouth now.

A low, feral growl escaped his lips, but it was not what either Thelxiope or Teles thought it was. He desperately wanted to escape, even if his body told him otherwise. Hermione--yes, think of Hermione, the insufferable, loathsome prat! But the thought of her, face flushed from excitement, served only to make him harder than he already was. His mouth was completely taken over by Teles, skilled seductress that she was, and all he could think of was her, how much he wanted this, how much he hated this! _Oh, Hermione, why are you not here to save me from this hell? _Maybe if he...

But no, the songs told him to think of the sirens, how gorgeous they were, how much he wanted them... Lust. Sheer lust, and nothing more. Oh, but how good it felt! It had been so long...

A column of flame shot from his belly through his spine as suddenly he felt something warm and hard pressed against his throbbing, pulsing erection. _No!_

He would not, could not betray Hermione's trust like that! Not after what these women had done to her!

__

Oh, but yes he could! called the songs, and he felt himself caught in the web they wove and wrapped around him. Thelxiope was going to have him take her against the tombstone. Mmm... How, dark... The warmth around his erection became damp now, and he had to fight hard to keep from bucking against the siren. "Yes," came the throaty croon as Thelxiope pulled his hands up to cup her firm, tanned breasts. Vaguely he realized that Teles had resigned herself to watch from a tombstone, with a wicked smile on her face, and her hand gently stroking the sensitive piece of flesh between her legs and tauntingly allowing deep moans to escape her lips.

"Ohh," whispered Thelxiope as she nipped his neck along the collar bone, "Yes... I told you we were more enjoyable..." She ground hard against his abdomen, and he moaned in response, claiming her mouth with his, and thrusting hard against her. In response, she wrapped her legs around him, reaching down to cup his balls in her hand and chuckling triumphantly when she felt him growl in response. Only this time, when Snape thrust, it was with his hands as he pushed her completely away from him, and glared down coldly. "I think not," he said in a very icy tone, readjusting his boxers and fastening his trousers. 

Surprised, Thelxiope stared up at him for a few minutes, before her wicked smile came back. "But I disagree. You will." She began to sing, beckoning him forward even as he resisted. It was a losing battle, but one Snape was determined to fight the entire way. He could throw off the Imperius Curse, and he was damned if he was going to let the siren seduce him!

Her voice rose intently as she continued to call him, rising higher and higher as suddenly it became a scream of pain, and she collapsed in a writhing mass against a stone cross. Teles jerked her gaze up, but before she could do anything, she, too, was in pain on the mossy ground. 

It took a few, long minutes for Snape to collect himself enough to analyze what had just happened. Three strides, and he was over to the oak tree stained with rust colored blood, and gazing intently into Raidne's pale, bloodless face. 

"I told you," she whispered, "...told you I wasn't like them." 

"What did you do?" Snape asked, desperately trying to keep this woman talking, keep her from fading away even before he could grab his wand from his robe pocket.

"I'm... something like... stymphalian bird... Can shoot my... feathers... arrows..." She shook her head softly, not looking at him.

"This will hurt very much," Snape said, and before she had a chance to react or cringe, he ripped her loose from the lyre and the tree. Quickly, before Raidne could lose any more blood, he used his wand to heal up the wounds and keep her from slumping down the tree. He was no mediwizard, but he had received enough wounds in his life to know how to heal.

"No... They missed... heart..." After a few ragged breaths. "Sirens are... hard... to kill. I will live... They... will... not... I did not... miss... Go."

Snape did not hesitate and did not look back behind him.

**********************************************************************

Okay, I'll respond to your comments first, and then give my notes after. ; )

Fianne: No! I nearly died laughing when I read your connection with druids and bawdy tunes. And thanks for pointing out the grammar, I needed that. (I'm all the time confusing pray with prey.)

Tegan: Hey ya! I hope you're still okay--that I didn't take too long! And what happened to Snape, you ask? When? At the end of the last chapter, he fell into unconsciousness with Hermione, but ahh, did Hermione actually kiss Snape at the beginning? Good question! I'll actually answer it. Yes! (It wasn't a dream, exactly... A confused waking dream where most of it actually happened. How did the shawl get there? Hermione's become good at unconsciously transfiguring things. And she used her wand--Snape holds on to it when she doesn't need it, but since she's somewhat part of his mind, she would know where he kept it. How did she end up on the other side of the door in the morning? She's also a sleepwalker.)

Kitty: Thanks for telling me I'm writing them in character. I try hard to do that. And you can find an online copy of the poem at: http://www.geocities.com/eranj2/shalott/ with lots of explications and definitions. Right now, I am four stanzas from the end of the poem.

Yin: They were justified, actually. My author's note for chapter five was rather poorly written, but I've fixed it since. But thanks! I really do enjoy researching and making connections. 

Ankle: Thanks! We love you readers, too. (Well, Snape says he doesn't love anybody, but I think he's just saying that.)

Okay, onto the good stuff:

Okay, Thelxiope and Teles want to enter the Seducing Severus Snape challenge. *shhh, don't tell them they can't!* Depending on what Greek source you use, there were anywhere from three to six or seven sirens, and they were all sisters. They had names--I used three of the most interesting ones. Raidne, Teles, and Thelxiope.

A standard is not a flag. Technically, a flag is only supposed to represent a nation or a country, and nothing else. Unfortunately, this term has been much abused in resent years, and much confusion ensues! A standard, therefore, is everything else we usually term flag. For example, Hermione cannot have a flag; she is not a nation. But she _can_ have a standard with her emblem on it. In this case, it is her blue shawl.

Hmm, why is the lyre a constant factor? Well, I suppose I _could_ have used an Aeolian harp, but I don't think it would have been very easy to pinion Raidne against the tree with one. However, it would be much easier to do it with a Greek lyre. Ibex's lyre is not necessarily a Greek lyre. Just thought you ought to know... : ^_^

Another interesting tidbit (I'm just full of facts today!) Lyric poetry comes from the tradition of the Greeks reciting poetry to lyres... (I mentioned something about this before, but I didn't use the term lyric.)

Stymphalian birds had brass beaks and claws, and could shoot their feathers like arrows. They were slain, I believe, by Hercules.

Hermione wrote above the prow _The Lady of the World_ instead of _The Lady of Shalott. _Whereas the name _The Lady of Shalott_ was an allusion to Elaine, the real name of the Lady, _The Lady of the World_ is an allusion to Hermione's name. Hermione is Greek for "earthly," or, since this is simply a matter of semantics, "of the earth," or even stretching the translation just a little farther, "of the world."

The 'us' ending on names, (Albus, Severus, Argus, Rubius, Remus, Sirius, Lucius,) and just about almost all the male names in the Harry Potter series are so very Latin it's not funny. Just be glad that J.K. didn't decide to use the Greek endings. You'd get names like Albos, Severos, Argos, Rubios, Remos, Sirios, and Lucios. I know it made me chuckle... :)

Okay, here is one really gross interpretation that I cannot remember the source from (I believe it was an old high school biology book, so I don't have it anymore) and cannot find but thought I'd tell you anyway: The serpent wrapped around Asclepius' staff isn't really a serpent. It's a fungus (ringworm, I think, but I am not quite sure). When removing it from a person, medicinal men back in that time used to cut the skin at the tip of the spiral that this fungus forms, take a stick, and pull the fungus out by coiling the fungus around the stick. Very painful, I assure you, and disgusting. Well, to the Greeks, it *did* resemble a snake, and since this was a useful procedure back when sanitation wasn't so great, the snake wrapped around the staff became the symbol of Asclepius, the mortal turned god of healing. You'll never look the same way at a medical emblem again, now will you? ; ) Although... snakes were believed to have healing properties (rejuvenation, actually) since they shed old skin.

And if anybody feels they've missed anything, just tell me and I can do a quick explanation of the meanings of the symbolism, plot, to date. Call it Cliff Notes if you will... I say this only because some people have informed me that they've had to read chapters multiple times to understand... I admit, sometimes I am a little abstract and unclear, and some important parts or foreshadowing are very subtle. I want you all to enjoy a good story, not fret about not understanding things. : )

****

Now for the serious part:

I guess I'm going to open a can of worms. I didn't mean to bring this up, and certainly I didn't write the scene with this thought in mind, but I just wanted everybody to remember... We make a great deal out of women being raped. Don't take this the wrong way--this little Ibex is female, and she has known friends who were raped, and I certainly don't mean to get preachy--I feel twice in two chapters is... bad... But I feel almost hypocritical, here, because we have a tendency to forget that males can be raped and do get raped all the time. And yes, sometimes by females. Only, male victims get pushed out of the spotlight, forgotten and ignored because when we think of rape, we automatically bastardize all men, and pile them into the scum category. This is unfair and inexcusable, in my honest and not so humble opinion. 

Thank you for listening.


	8. Her Last Song

****

The Lady of Shalott

by Ibex's Lyre

Hey, I just wanted to remind you guys, because I care about you all:

If you want a really good source that explains all the symbolism of the poem, go to here: http://www.geocities.com/eranj2/shalott/ It has definitions and information galore, and explains just why the poem was written. (It was a political commentary; who knew?)

I must admit that when I wrote this, it was rather late at night, and I was listening to _The Visit_ from (*groan, you guessed it*) Loreena McKennitt. Specifically, I was listening to "The Old Ways." Therefore, if you detect a rather moody, dark undercurrent in the writing; if it seems to take uncharted, morose, melancholic, or often rather blunt turns--that's probably why. But save your judgements for Chapter Nine. And just for the record, I am not exactly sure from what stemmed the torture scene, or even where the methods came from. Perhaps only Voldemort's twisted logic can offer an explanation.

**__**

Things are not as they seem, floating frozen down the river. The petal that cradles the seed does not know what will happen to it as it races past the icy bank. Is it gone forever, or is it merely preparing to transform?

Chapter Eight: Her Last Song

__

Lying robed in snowy white  
That loosely flew to left and right--   
The leaves upon her falling light--  
Thro' the noises of the night  
She floated down to Camelot:  
And as the boat-head wound along  
The willowy hills and fields among,   
They heard her singing her last song,  
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,  
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,   
Till her blood was frozen slowly,  
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,  
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.  
For ere she reach'd upon the tide  
The first house by the water-side,   
Singing in her song she died,  
The Lady of Shalott.

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

She lay still as she listened to the noises of the night around her. The coming of the winter, the darkness engulfing her, she heard. Everything all around was dying. In the moonlight, as her magical boat passed fields of barley and wheat that had been harvested. Fallen shafts of golden brown lay strewn in bare fields. The last leaves of the season caught in the wind and sailed down upon the river, covering her with a light blanket of browns. Even the sun was dying, victim to the moon. And in the wind, the sirens no longer sang.

To fill the void that now brought silence, she opened her mouth, and began to sing. It was a haunting, wordless song that could not be translated into anything but pure sound. Drifting on the wind, her voice could be heard far into the fallowing fields, abandoned for the next season, beyond into the hills and through the forest. The haunting notes ran across the river and through the souls of all whom happened to be near by. Those who slept, muggle, witch, or wizard, dreamt that night that they saw the death of a creature so pure and so magical, that it made unicorns seem sullied in comparison; they wept for the world remaining. 

The chill began to sink in even as the storm clouds floated on by and left the sky full of icy, distant jewels that sparkled like faraway fairies. She sang on, even as her breathing slowed, and her hands became numb. Past the stands of trees, and the empty river valleys. Onward the boat floated towards a dark and dreary land. Slowly, she drew her hand up to the bottle around her neck and opened it. The liquid inside slid down her throat easily and formed a softly glowing sheen that reacted with the rain and unicorn blood upon her lips. And as the frosty winds swirled around her head, and softly tussled her wild hair, her eyes grew dim and lifeless. Ere she ever reached her destination, she was lost unto the world of shadows. cur

***

The Riddle house, or mansion, actually, reeked of death and thing gone wayward. The garden that had once been so carefully maintained and kept in high order was now awry; weeds choked out everything that had once been beautiful. Leaves were full of rusty holes and carapaces of dead insects, and slugs festered and ooze their way across the lawn and low on the outer facade of the building, which was slowly crumbling due to neglect. Windows were empty not of glass but of light, and crows and other carrion eaters had found a perfect home perched high up on the rooftops and across the gables. They cawed their harsh, despairing song to an empty, listless night.

As Snape slowly approached the outer boundaries of the place, he could sense the warding magic probe and test his cloak. It was searching for something--searching for him, actually, feeling the void of seemingly nothingness that was Severus and trying to destroy his magic--subtly. But the ward was not a threat. Yet.

He kept to the shadows, wondering vaguely if this was what it felt like to be an auror ambushing a Death Eater's home, but quickly dismissed the thought. He was no auror. He was Severus Snape, bastard and coward, _spy!_ The worst kind of scum who pretended to be on one side merely so that they could corrupt it from within! There was no heroics here, no lack of fear. He was no Mad Eye Moody. The scars Snape had earned could not be seen by anyone... Except perhaps Hermione. Snape ruthlessly pushed the thought away and tested the door he had come upon. It was small and low to the ground; it looked like at one time it had been a servant's access that had been neglected and forgotten, like everything else here.

A push, and the door budged somewhat. _Good,_ Snape mused. To use a wand or perform magic this close to Voldemort was to announce his presence with a gong. However, nobody would have suspected it, but Snape was well versed in the many muggle arts associated with "the dark side," as they so obnoxiously termed it. The magical community often underestimated muggle ingenuity, and almost never took the proper precautions to ward against these methods. After all, who would expect a wizard to try to break into a magical home using muggle means? He smiled harshly to himself as he began to pick the rusty archaic lock. Just as he thought--there were wards on the door to prevent it from being unlocked by magic, but Voldemort, more the fool for him having muggle parentage on one side at least, had done nothing to keep someone from physically picking the lock. A triumphant click later, and he was able to push the door open on rusty, neglected hinges.

The room was empty save for broken furniture and cobwebs; motes of dust filtered down from nowhere and made Snape's eyes water slightly from the assault of noxious decay. In the corner lay something that resembled a dried out layer of skin. _Probably Nagini's_, he mused. It figured that the snake would be something like a guard dog--making regular tours of all the darkest places for its master.

Being careful to tread only in shadows--like any good piece of stealth equipment, his cloak's greatest ally was dim and darkness, Snape began to proceed from room to room. The sheer folly and lunacy of what he was doing hit him--he didn't even know where the Dark Lord liked to spend most of his time! Oh, he had an idea that perhaps it was the one of the upper floors, but he didn't really _know._ As the minutes and empty rooms continued to pass by, Snape became more and more at ease with the obvious one way ticket to his martyrdom Hermione had purchased for him. Ironic, as it had always been the last thing he had ever wanted, but it was becoming ever more apparent that he had been the fool once more.

He came to a room he recognized, and stopped. That was one floor taken care of, anyway.

Upon dashing up a flight of stairs, he found the second floor was slightly better taken care of than the first floor. The rooms were less dusty, merely forgotten. Curtains were not on the verge of falling off their hooks, but all the pictures that should have been on the walls lay face down on the carpeted floor; the ones that sat in frames on top of mantles and desks were face down. No, Voldemort was not on this floor, but his presence was felt everywhere. Somewhat curious, Snape looked at one of the old, grainy, slow moving pictures on the mantle. It was of a family of three, waving happily as can be. The old Riddles, Snape presumed. The ones Voldemort killed almost fifty years ago. Couldn't bear to see their faces smiling back at him and waving, so he laid them all face down. _How sad,_ he sneered to himself.

Closer, then. 

He walked up another set of stairs. The sense of foreboding and intensely evil menace coming from the third floor hit Snape like a wall of ice. He gasped and stood utterly still for several minutes, catching himself and pushing down all emotions. He had already come too far to turn back, and he was going to be damned if he let fear rule him now! This was the moment he had been waiting for, wasn't it? The moment of triumph, the point of redemption he'd been waiting for since that one fateful day so many years ago when he had stood before Dumbledore pleading for his own death, wanting so bad for the sweet oblivion of mortality; a way to end everything and absolve himself from all the guilt he had felt--and he had been forced back, conned by the Ministry into doing the very same job they had had him doing before...

Oh, yes, the Ministry would never admit to it now, but somewhere... Somewhere in the Ministry's vaults and vaults of mismanaged and unorganized records, there was a file opened on Severus Snape, with a piece of paper with the Department of Magical Security's seal embossed on the top, for him, "Age Eighteen, to be Recruited for Covert Infiltration into the New Death Eater Cult and act as a Mole for the Ministry... and shall be Required to work towards Achieving as high a rank in the Society as he can, and help the Ministry bring about Lord Voldemort's Downfall from the inside, bound by a Fidelis spell to ensure loyalty..." 

Stupid, foolish git! So young--only eighteen, and he a _Slytherin_ had walked into the Ministry's trap like a bravery blinded Gryffindor! And why? Because he had been such a pathetically lonely boy, who had _thought_ that by working for a greater good, people might for once appreciate all that he did and all that he was! That he would be, and the very thought made him nauseous now, would be a hero, just like Potter and Black and Lupin had always managed to appear!

The realization came suddenly that this floor was being warded with a particularly strong distracting charm. Coldly, he shoved all his emotions and memories down into the gaping hole in his mind. It would hardly do to be distracted as Voldemort so obviously wanted intruders to be. There were voices, odd, wispy, high and painful coming down the hallway, to the left, an indication of where the end of the all of this lay. There was no mistaking that...voice.

"Yes..." came the hiss that was clearly Voldemort. "I believe that many things will be revealed tonight, Wormtail. Past transgressions will be... atoned for." His laugh was truly something unenjoyable; nasty.

Perhaps the ease in which Snape had managed to proceed undetected so far should have made him wary. Certainly somebody as powerful--or demented as Voldemort would have thought to place nasty surprises and wards up for those foolish enough to pay him a visit--but this was the furthest thought from his mind. He wanted an out to the cursed--

He never did see the giant snake that slithered silently up behind him.

***

"Ah, Nagini," hissed the voice quietly. "Sometimes I think you are my most faithful servant. Bring him here, Wormtail." 

In a not very dignifying fashion, Wormtail dragged Snape into the room and over to Voldemort's feet. His body felt like it was on fire, as thought somebody had poured a thousand crawling, jagged, burning spiders into his eyes and allowed them to crawl down his body and tear him inside from out. "Hang him up, Wormtail, so that I may see his face when he dies. So that he may see me." The man who was once Peter Pettigrew smiled sickly at Snape and made a quick motion with his hands using pieces of Voldemort's magic. Snape was picked up and 'hung,' as Voldemort had said; magic made into hanging meat hooks caught into his flesh under his shoulder blades and suspended him in a most painful manner a few agonizing feet above the ground, directly in front of Voldemort. His face was locked into an agonizing expression of excruciating pain. His hands opened from lack of conscious control, and the bottle and the wand fell out.

Pondering silently, Voldemort looked up from the bottle to Snape, who to his credit, considering what he was going through, had managed to utter nothing more than a strangled groan as his shoulder blades took all of his body weight and slowly began to become disjointed. "You must pardon the methods," he said softly, in such a deceptive voice. "I have found that sometimes the older muggle methods of torture work best with somebody so well versed as you with the... Cruatius Curse."

Snape could only utter a weak, strangled hiss in reply as his body revolted and he had to fight the rising pain-spawned nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. At this point, vomiting on the Dark Lord would definitely only cause a slower death. _Who ever is out there... Even if it's nobody, or just me listening, let me... let me go now... let me die, float free from this cursed trap I've been ensnared in for so long... Once again, I have failed._

"Poison, Severus?" Voldemort whispered softly, the bottle suddenly in his hands. When he had picked it up, exactly, Snape wasn't sure; reality through the haze was nothing more than blurred perceptions. "Really, I would have thought that you of all people would have come up with something more original than that..." He opened up the bottle and sniffed it, his slits of nostrils quivering as they analyzed all the different scents in the potion. "Dragon's blood?" he laughed. "Now that is an interesting one. But I must say, Severus... I must say that I am not amused with your effort." He stood up from his chair before the fire, and began to pace in front of Snape, like a serpent deciding how to strike, and where. "I have not been amused with you for... some time... Which is such a shame, for you were so promising. But even now I have begun to question whether that was a charade, too."

__

Walking through the emptiness, there was a forest.  
And in the forest, there was a road.  
And this road switched off in many directions, some darker, some lighter, some with no real difference at all.  
But there was a point in the forest, where the road became split in twain,  
Where the differences were many and major.

He sighed a sigh of great regret, and continued on, studying him. "And I do not take kindly to traitors. So now we must decide what to do with you now that you have been caught. That was rather foolish of you, you know. Not very shrewd. Not at all of what I would have expected of you, Severus. You must be desperate for... release... to be so foolish, when I know what you were. And you must have realized what a lost cause you were fighting. Which means that I cannot make death a quick, painless thing," he smiled, as he tugged harshly on Snape, causing the invisible hooks to dig even deeper and scrape harshly against bone and sinew. He was rewarded with a strangled grunt from Snape, and Voldemort laughed cruelly. "Ah, yes. I thought so."

__

Standing at this junction, there was a man.  
Which way to chose, when the choice was so hard? For one the greatest choices are never the easiest.  
How to chose when all seemed so futile anyway?  
When death seemed the simplest answer, and that road the one more desirable?  
Even if the fate of everything rested upon his shoulders?

Emptiness. Snape thought of emptiness. He tuned out Voldemort's voice, ignored the pain until it mattered no longer what was happening to his body. He focused his mind on the emptiness of oblivion, forgetting for once all the burdens that people had placed on his shoulders. Death was infinitely more enjoyable than living this life any longer. Hell was a welcomed mercy compared to the hell he had suffered through for so long... With the last of his concentration, he began to gather his remaining essence, his last recognition of self, and began to think of drifting away forever from everything. Oh, for the nothingness of finality...

__

No, cried a soft voice in his mind, butterfly soft--his conscious, he supposed. Ironic, it had never bothered him before...

__

And why shouldn't I? I am as good as dead anyway! Why should I struggle to stay alive only to endure much more torture before Voldemort finally gives me what I want? And them, despairing because he knew he wouldn't be allowed his own release from all this pain, he whispered despairingly, _Why would anybody care what becomes of me? Why does it matter anymore? I am tired of living this life, of never being allowed to have anything to love. Of being the hated, feared disgusting bastard. I am tired of living this lie of a life that was forced upon me when I was so young. _A strained laugh escaped his lips, unbeknownst to him, because he knew that he would fight, despite himself. He would stave off death as long as he could, just to frustrate Voldemort as long as he could. Be a bastard even unto death.

Perplexed, Voldemort watched. "Ah, I am glad this amuses you, Severus," he hissed softly. "Perhaps that can be remedied?" 

"Unfortunately for you, Voldemort," grunted Severus, using up the last remaining strength that he had hoped would some how hold back death, "You cannot even keep your sirens in line. How do you propose to remedy me when you cannot even control a _creature_!"

A flame of fire lit into his blood red eyes, and made his scaly skin quiver in fury. But Voldemort controlled his emotions, and managed a smile. "Do you know what it feels like to be drawn and quartered, Severus?"

__

Standing behind him, at this divergence, there was a woman.  
How to make him see that he was not alone in this? That other people cared?  
When her sacrifice was the only way, how to make him understand?  
How to explain that on this night of nights, the world is not the same--  
That all is not as hopeless as it seems? 

A pain shot through Snape's torso, in a straight line from his lower abdomen all the way up to his solar plex . There was no real line, this was not really happening, but the excruciating, mind ripping pain was much the same. Magically, his skin was pulled apart by this invisible vertical cut, and his innards--intestines, stomach, pancreas, liver--all were pulled out and left to hang from his hung up body... or that is exactly what it felt like. Then, the pain became even more intense, if it was possible, as if somebody was slowly hacking his torso into four, rough-hewn pieces and sending him slowly back towards the sweet blackness, to the end of the universe, towards the parting in the veil that separated the living from the dead. And on the other side, somebody was waiting for him.

__

For, beyond the moon and beyond the river,  
The veil that sets life and death apart was stretched thinnest on this night;  
Boundaries uncrossable were open to many closest to life and closest to death  
How to explain that on this night of nights, the world is not the same--  
That all is not as hopeless as it seems? 

He almost laughed. Despite everything, he almost opened his mouth and allowed laughter to fall from his lips until he either died from exhaustion or from Voldemort. Who would have thought that he, of all people warranted a guardian angel? And that it would be Hermione, of all people? Surely somebody beyond death had an odd sense of humor--that was the only thing that could explain what a big joke his life seemed to be.

He tried to join Hermione, to leave behind his body and come through the opening in the veil, and join his hallucination. Finally, an end to everything! But the girl on the other side of the veil shook her head sadly, whispered an unheard _No._

Voldemort laughed softly at Snape, and pulled him back from the brink of unconsciousness by ending the pain. "We cannot let you die that quickly, Severus... Not when you have so many years of debt to repay back in pain. And then I shall kill you. Besides, Nagini tells me we have a... guest... Wormtail! Go bring her up to us."

"Yes, Dark Lord," whispered Wormtail, just subserviently enough to get away without getting kicked, but not prepared to cringe in front of Snape, who, in Wormtail's mind, was scum beyond scum. He was gone only a few minutes--even Wormtail was not relieved from the penalties that lay in making Voldemort wait too long--but when he came back up, he brought with him all of Snape's worst nightmares come true: having to watch one of his students--never mind it was a Gryffindor, or even Hermione, bane of his classroom existence--sacrificed to the Dark Lord himself.

**********************************************************************

__

Under tower and balcony,  
By the garden-wall and gallery,   
A gleaming shape she floated by,  
Dead-pale between the houses high,  
Silent into Camelot.  
Out upon the wharfs they came,   
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,   
And round the prow they read her name,  
The Lady of Shalott.

__

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

Hey, Tegan, I've left my response to you at the very end because it contains **SPOILERS**, but in clue form. *Heh...* Ohh, and I so loved Echoes Chapter Ten... 

Tracy: Hey ya! I love it too! Thanks for reading. I'm rather sad, though... we're almost to the end. One more chapter and we'll be through.

littlemandyralph: '.' to you, too! ;-p I'm going to assume FF.Net had a stupid moment, but thanks for responding!

Kitty: Here you go, I hope this is a little more clear, now. And yes, there is a sequel. It's called _The Lady, or the Snow Leopard? _(Nice juicy hint!)

EvilFireWitch: Do you understand now?

Yin: Yes, Hermione actually did run away and drink unicorn blood. Bad, bad Hermione! Actually, it's a good thing she does. You'll see next chapter.

VaderQueen: Thank you! :) I hope I gave a satisfactory ending until the sequel.

Tegan: You know what's really sad is _I_ never know where it's heading, either! I really do surprise myself occasionally. I'll be writing one thing and realize that it's nowhere near what I had been planning to write, but that's probably for the best. It keeps me on my toes, and makes me stretch my mind to figure out how to fit what I wrote to where I want to go. For example, Raidne's conversation to Snape about Zeus and Demeter came up as I was trying to figure out how a non human, but sentient creature like a siren or even centaur would feel about humans and their religion--specifically, since she is a Greco-Roman idea--the Greco-Roman gods. Out of nowhere popped Raidne's comment, and fannon it became! 

And don't worry... I'm a sap for happy endings. Oh, you'll never in a million years guess how I'll explain everything, but yes, it'll be good. And happy. Besides, how could I write a SS/HG sequel if both Snape AND Hermione dies--have them meet in Valhalla? Ooh, I can just imagine them running into each other across the Rainbow Bridge. Snape would be chased by one of the guardian dragons (he'd probably have said something really sarcastic and not so nice) and Hermione, of course, would be explaining just what he did wrong and why he was in such a bad fix and really, one would have thought death would have changed him, but no, he's still a cranky old potions profess--Snape is giving me a very dirty look, and Hermione has this dreamy sort of gaze in her eyes... Perhaps I'd better shut up now...

My feel for mythology, I think, probably came from my 10th grade English teacher. Well, we had two that year cause one got pregnant and had a baby, which was okay because I hated her anyway, but the other was really great. _She_ was young enough that she still loved teaching, and had us read mythology from all around the world and analyze it. That instilled a hunger for the beauty and power of myth that I still have, and was the impetus for all the hours of on-my-own myth studying that I've done since then. I'm always learning something new. The twists I use when it comes to myth I think have been influenced by the vast amount of literature I have absorbed. And I am positive that if you tried, you could come up with something very similar to what I am thinking--figure out my next move.

I'll give you couple of hints, to get you started, if you like. 

It's Halloween, _Samhain_. Do you know the story of the Jack-O-Lantern and just _why_ it is used for Halloween? More importantly, do you understand the significance of Halloween? 

...

...

...

Remember Raidne's prophecy. Hermione asked what would happen if she died, and Raidne answered her. 

...

...

...

There is a juxtaposition here, can you see it? 

...

...

...

And, for further verification, do you know the story of Asclepius and just _why_ Zeus killed him in the first place? 

...

...

...

His symbol was the snake, representative of rejuvenation. But I've left out some of the myth here. Dreams involving snakes and temples. Do you know why people began to associate Asclepius with the snake? (Don't take the answer from my Author's Note--that was just the 'real' reason, not the mythological one) 

...

...

...

Now who do you know of in cannon to have a snake that's likely to bite? 

...

...

...

Keeping #6 in mind, where are both Hermione and Severus heading? 

...

...

...

Who do you think is most likely going to die here? Keep what you just read in Chapter Eight in mind. 

...

...

...

Are you beginning to put the pieces together? Do you see how my mind works? (Because if you do, at least *somebody* can!) 


	9. Grace

****

The Lady of Shalott

by Ibex's Lyre

**__**

And what is an end but only some other beginning?

Chapter Nine: Grace

__

Who is this? and what is here?  
And in the lighted palace near   
Died the sound of royal cheer;  
And they cross'd themselves for fear,  
All the knights at Camelot:  
But Lancelot mused a little space;  
He said, "She has a lovely face;   
God in his mercy lend her grace,  
The Lady of Shalott."

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

"Mmm, what is this, Severus?" Voldemort whispered with a sadistic smile upon his face. "A gift? Is that why she is in white?"

"She's dead," he spat, at the same time trying desperately not to believe the evidence that lay before his eyes. Her skin was a waxy pale color, and the lack of chest movement betrayed her lifeless state. In a moment of odd despair, he saw once more what he had seen the first time he had truly looked at Hermione Granger. That moment, when she had been on the sickbed in the infirmary, comatose and lost to the world, he had seen the beauty that was Hermione, just as he saw it now. Why was it the most beautiful creatures, the ones most worthy of life are always the ones to die first?

"All the better," came Voldemort's harsh laugh. "Necromancy produces more... useful... servants anyway. And look! She has the twin to your bottle!" With a swift, serpentine movement, the Dark Lord grabbed the bottle and opened it, sniffing the contents. The contents of the bottle were foreign to him, and seemed to rival in complexity even anything he had ever known Snape to create. "What ingenuity... Perfect..." And to Snape's immense disgust and horror, Voldemort bent over and kissed the dead girl. It was not simply a chaste kiss, it was coldly passionate, brutal. Reptilian lips pressed against cold mammalian ones, bruising, biting, leaving nothing sacred. Dead things do not bleed. The heart no longer pumps blood, and unless an organ such as the liver or heart is opened, or unless a very large vein or artery is ripped, no blood is spilled. And yet, somehow a new, human drop of blood was added to the mix of substances already upon Hermione's lips, and activated the magic Snape had wanted. Unicorn and dragon's blood, phoenix tears and liquid Aurora Australis, the last drop of human existence and Severus' own well veiled potion reacted together to create something new, something powerful. Like Hermione and Severus, the new mixture was much more powerful than the sum of its parts.

It slithered slowly first, like a sluggish snake on a cold spring morning, slithering into his skin and through his veins. Surprised, Voldemort jerked back from the corpse and glared down at it, searching for his wand. "What?" he hissed angrily, and Nagini was becoming frantic, sensing the distress of her master. Faster, warming to his blood, did the snake spread through like an icy serpent of doom, crawling, angry tendrils of frozen doom spread through his arteries, and throughout his body. Hermione's potion unleashed the inner animal upon its owner--if the person was not at peace with themselves, if the one part of mercy was convinced that the core being was evil, that it was a mercy to end its owner instead of unleashing it on the rest of the world, it would destroy its owner. Voldemort's inner animal was a serpent, like Nagini, and it had determined that there was nothing good enough worth saving in the creature that was once Tom Riddle to spare him his life. He collapsed lifeless to the floor, humbled by a single dead woman.

So, too, did Snape, held up no more the painful, torturous magic. He lay where he fell, seemingly no more alive than Voldemort, except that his chest moved in ragged, harsh gasps that shot pain through his back and down his spine with every breath he took. 

Nagini, at the sight of her dead master, took one mistaken strike at Hermione and bit the already lifeless girl. Horrified even at the thought, Snape, at the same time Nagini struck, grabbed his wand and aimed once at the snake. Nagini was faster, but she died even before she began to raise her head again. "No," moaned Snape softly, as he tried to crawl over to check on the condition of the corpse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wormtail move in an attempt to escape. A quick body bind left him cursing on the floor, and Snape somewhat dizzy, as if the world around him would not stop fading towards darkness. "One move, Pettigrew," Snape growled though the haze of unconsciousness that was rapidly descending on him, "And I swear I will leave you like I left Voldemort and Nagini."

"P-pplease, mm-master--!"

"Please nothing, you less than worthless rat! I've been waiting a long time for this--" He tried to stand up, but realized his mistake too late as the sweet oblivion descended around him.

Wormtail was alone in silence. The clock struck midnight, off in the distance, a sad, mournful hymn to a new morning. And on the third chime, the dead rose, and breathed life into the lifeless corpse. One breath, and the veil between the living and the dead was opened, and quickly closed. Another, and her eyes fluttered opened. A third, and she sat up, alive and awake, sane and in control of everything she did. She registered the body of the giant dead snake spread over her, and of the cowering man who stared at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. She looked at the dead man, more snake than human, laying on the floor--trapped forever behind the veils that separated the living from the dead. And she saw-- 

"Severus--Professor..." Hermione gasped, as she ran over to the man laying on the floor, wand clutched tightly in his right hand. Carefully, she rolled him over, and placed her ear next to his lips, listening for breathing. When she heard and felt his faint but reassuring breath against her skin, she stood up and looked at Wormtail, pondering what exactly to do. A faint smile came to her lips as she thought back to everything that had happened in the past six months, and turned sad when she thought of Raidne. Finally, she decided just what exactly she would do. She picked up Snape's wand and walked over to the window, ignoring the quivering of Wormtail. 

Using his long, foreign wand, which looked like it was made of ironwood, she shot red sparks out of the window and into the dark night. To the muggle community nearby, it would look simply like a stray piece of fireworks. To an auror, or any other member of the magical community, it would be read as an urgent request for help. Then she wrote a note explaining what had happened according to Snape's memories, and left it attached to Voldemort's corpse for the aurors to find. "Come on, Professor," she whispered to her fallen friend--it surprised her that she had suddenly considered him so, until she realized that in many ways, he was closer to her than anybody else was--and used his wand to take him back to the magical boat that would return them upstream, back to Hogwarts. 

***

Hermione sat still, letting her fingers trail in the water softly behind the magic boat as it took them upstream back to Hogwarts. The sunrise through the early morning river mists cast an eerie magic to the early morning scene. After a long while, she looked down at the figure whose head lay in her lap, and allowed herself a weary smile. He looked so calm and serene when he was asleep. Hermione sighed softly, pulling her hand out of the water and letting it trail slowly across his brow and watching as the small beads of water ran down his face and into his hair like tears in the very same method he had done to her, once. A sentient, sane affirmation of their bond, she guessed. 

So much had happened, but it seemed like such a hollow victory. Like they were missing something. 

She sighed, and watched as the boat slowly settled against the bank where she had found it. Then she carefully took him through the forest, being much more gentle than the first time she had seen him under the Mobilicorpus spell, and led him back to Hogwarts. Filch was waiting for her at the great arching doors to Hogwart's main entrance, a scowl on his face. "An' what would we 'ave here, but a student out and about with an unconscious teacher so early in the morning? We've been lookin' fer you all night, and 'ere you come, please as you can be, while I should have been searchin' for my Mrs. Norris--"

"Please, sir," she said in a very tired voice, "Madam Pomfrey needs to see him."

"I think that is an excellent idea, Miss Granger," came Dumbledore's clear voice from behind Filch, startling them both. Slowly, they headed up towards the infirmary, Hermione telling him everything that she had written in her letter to the aurors. Upon arriving at the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey fussed over Snape for several minutes, before declaring his state due to mostly exhaustion, which would be cleared up with some well-deserved rest. McGonagall looked almost as though she had seen the ghost of her dead dog Ellen when she first glimpsed Hermione talking brightly to Dumbledore, with not even a hint of her previous condition apparent. 

"Well done, I think," came his wise voice, the gleam of triumph evident in his eyes. "And now, I believe that you, too, should spend a night--or day, actually--in the able care of our Madam Pomfrey, just to help you recover, too." The suspicious sparkle was clear, and Hermione briefly wondered if he had a second agenda. Before she could ask, she was left all alone with Snape. 

Perhaps it was due to her confusion, or perhaps the long, deep sleep she had already had, but Hermione simply wasn't very tired. Instead, she chose to pull up a nice, comfortable chair beside Snape, and watch him. Now she allowed her mind free, to wander where it may. To her intense relief, everything she had suspected was true--the curse the other sirens had placed upon her should she chose to break through the wall that hid the memories of the question she had asked had simply been the curse of sight--of sanity, if you will. The realization that the world did rest upon not only Snape's shoulders, or hers, but on everybody's. And then she knew that there had been really only one thing she could do if she wanted her world to go down the more favorable path--something that she couldn't even let Severus know about, lest he attempt to stop her. She had had to become living--or dead bait, to drink a potion that was more powerful than the Draught of Living Death, to sleep the eternal sleep and be prepared to come back. In truth, Hermione had been quite sane ever since Snape had forced her to look beyond the walls in her mind--only, she had pulled inward into herself, inward so deep that even Snape had not been able to find the spark of existence that was Hermione Granger. And she had done what she had to.

She allowed the warm sunlight streaming in autumn rays through the windows to lull herself to sleep, and let her head rest gently on the chest of the man before her, as comfortable as if he was her. In a way, after all, he was.

***

In a nightmarish fit, Snape jerked upright, completely awake and aware of the girl whose head had just a moment ago been pressed up against him. He stared down coldly at her even as she looked back up at him in somewhat of a surprised, sleepy daze. "You," he growled harshly, the pain in his shoulders and abdomen only slightly diminished from what it had been.

"What?" Hermione asked, quite clearly confused. Her mind suddenly caught onto his rapid, angry stream of thoughts, and she stood up out of her chair, backing away. He didn't want her. _He didn't want her! He was uncomfortable, embarrassed with her! Everything she had worked so hard for had been a lie!_ "I--" she faltered, biting her lips to keep back the emotions that threatened to spill out of her panicked, hurt mind.

"You what?" Snape responded, almost snarling now, just as confused and angry as she, not understanding what had just happened and why he was still alive in the infirmary instead of dead next to her.

"Nothing!" Hermione cried, and bolted out of the door. Heading presumably back to the dungeons, to her--_their_ rooms.

It was then Snape noticed Madam Pomfrey watching him with a disapproving glare and her hands on her hips. "And what do you want?" he sneered, cursing everything that came to mind under his breath. He looked like he was quite ready to kill somebody.

"You know, Severus Snape, you could have a little _empathy_ for somebody who just saved your life and rid the world of a truly nasty presence!"

"She did what? I clearly told you to make sure she went nowhere! So why did I, my dear Madam Pomfrey, see her a dead, cold sacrifice to Voldemort? Perfect object for some very nasty necromancy that would have damned her body and her soul worse than even a Dementor can do?"

"Severus! That young woman whom you just scared off did you a greater favor than is apparently worth you! She gave you the greatest gift she could--a second chance and a new life, free of the cur of all our lives, and you yelled at her, scared her off! The first person to finally see who you were through your nasty facade, and what did you do? All but bite her head off! For your sake, I hope she has it in her heart to forgive a spiteful, horrible person like you, or you truly will be all alone for the rest of your life--which will be, incase you have somehow forgotten, very very long!"

That said, Madam Pomfrey crossed her arms in an I Told You So manner. With a great frown to hide his frustration and... guilt... he swooped out of the bed and after the woman. She had a good fifteen minutes on him, and when he made their way to the quarters, her found her curled up asleep on the couch that sat before the fireplace. He almost asked her why when he got a good glimpse of her room. It was a disaster zone--it looked like Peeves had gone through and emptied all the bookshelves onto her bed and everywhere else. With a tormented sigh, he picked up Hermione and walked towards his room--let her sleep on his bed and himself on the couch. It seemed like the 'gentlemanly' thing to do, anyway. 

He was stopped when he heard soft mewling sounds coming from his bed. 

"No," he growled. It just couldn't be--!

It was.

Mrs. Norris had decided that the best place to have her kittens was, and Merlin only knew why, on Snape's bed. The bed was a soiled, wet mess with kittens and afterbirth littering the sheets. To top everything off, Crookshanks, tomcat that he was, was staring nonchalantly up at Snape and Hermione with a, "Why don't you go get laid?" look in his eyes. 

That settled it! Snape, sleeping Hermione still in his arms, decided to sleep on the couch, and deal with everything else later.


End file.
